What I Did on my Summer Vacation
by JWAB
Summary: Matt lets Rebekah show him the world.
1. Chapter 1

_This is not a continuation of Gifts. It picks up maybe two days after the season four finale._

_My adoration of Matt and Rebekah was nurtured during conversations with **CreepingMuse**, who then patiently, insightfully betaed this fic multiple times. Let us all raise a glass to her awesomeness!_

**Chapter 1**

Rebekah answers her phone after one ring.

"What are you doing?" Matt asks, his first words of the day raspy and thick.

"I wasn't sure you'd go through with it."

"You're an hour early."

There's silence on the line for a few seconds, but through the living room window he can see her in the back seat of a yellow cab, smiling an embarrassed smile. "I'm excited," she confides. "Are you excited? You're not going to back out?"

His initial response is a grin, followed by a quick, smeary face rub. "I need a shower and cup of coffee before we leave." He almost asks her to come in – he wants to and it feels rude not to – but Tyler asked that the place be kept mostly vampire free. And even if technically it's Matt's house now, it will always feel more like Tyler's. Tyler's mom's, really, so Matt doesn't feel right about changing anything.

"I'll be here… or, right, I could _not_ creepily wait outside. So I'll go get some coffee, too. Good idea. And a muffin. Would you like a muffin?"

He laughs. World travel with an Original vampire is completely insane, but it's the thought of eating a muffin under these circumstances that strikes him as absurd. "Nah, that's okay."

She smiles again, to herself, and even though he'd maybe rather watch her smile a bit longer, it feels intrusive to see her when she thinks he can't. He lets the curtain fall back down over the window. "See you soon," she whispers.

* * *

He wasn't sure he'd go through with it either, but it looks like he will. His heart is beating fast as he steps into Tyler's shower. He's never been on an airplane before. Never had anywhere to go. And now this wave of adrenaline hits him, and it's about the airplane but also about embarking on an open-ended trip around the world with a hopefully well-intentioned vampire who is new to not eating people or snapping their necks. He can't ignore the possibility that this next chapter of his life could be fatally short. But he has to admit, there's something about her. She is hot, no avoiding it, and she doesn't hide her attraction to him. She saved his life, which should make up for killing Elena and almost killing him. He wants it to anyway, for her sake. Because she is trying to be good, and she's using him as a model, which may not be the smartest move ever, but it says a lot.

It has the potential to be a great trip, if he doesn't get killed or screw it up. He's got a T-shirt and a pair of jeans laid out on the bed; everything else is packed in a navy blue rolling suitcase he found at the back of Tyler's closet. It was either that or his own practice duffel, but he didn't think Rebekah would want to be seen with him slinging that over his shoulder, not to mention that the inside smells like a swamp. So borrowed suitcase it is, still half empty because Matt doesn't need much.

He considers slipping his letter jacket on when he glances at it hanging on the chair by the guest room door – his bedroom door. But he stops. High school is over. If he puts it on now, pretty soon he's the guy who still wears his letter jacket when he's 25, relying on the memory of high school's small victories to meet women, have a social life, feel good about himself. He decides in that moment not to ever be that guy whose best days were high school. He's going to embrace his future, however brief it is. Starting now. So instead, he grabs Tyler's leather jacket downstairs. "Thanks, buddy," he mumbles as he shrugs it on.

Rebekah is already on the doorstep when he opens the front door. "Ready?" she asks carefully, as if Matt is easily spooked. He might be – he's not sure.

"No," Matt attempts lightly. "But let's go anyway."

* * *

The plane tips upward and Matt can feel the tug of pressure or gravity or something on the back of his throat.

"So Ireland, not Italy?" he asks, pretending he's not freaking out at all.

"Italy eventually. Ireland _first_," Rebekah corrects him, leaning back against the headrest. "I have a surprise there for you."

Matt grins in spite of himself. "I have no idea where we're going, or when, or for how long. Every part of this is a surprise."

"Well, I'm kicking it off with a big one. Trust me."

Matt nods, glancing out the window as they climb into the morning sky. _Someday, maybe_, he thinks.

* * *

He doesn't know what he expected. Maybe a bus, or another cab, and then a small hotel in Dublin. Or a train; Europe loves trains, right?

He did not expect a helicopter.

"Is this the surprise?" he yells as they crouch, running, toward the open cabin door on the side of the helicopter, its rotor already whipping up a whirlwind above their heads. Matt tries not to think about Indiana Jones and faces being sliced off.

"Not yet," she yells back.

The helicopter lifts off the ground, hovers, and rises. It is terrifying and magnificent. Matt can barely make out what the pilot is saying, and soon he doesn't care. He leans against the harness so he can see the lush green hills below them in the dusk. The pilot points out landmarks Matt's never heard of and won't remember, gray brown squares of old stone that used to be castles or forts. None of it will stick. Matt is in a helicopter, hovering over Ireland.

The ride is over too soon. They land on a small island in a large lake, alongside a tall castle with long wings curling out from both sides like an attempted hug. Someone in a suit helps them out and away from the impossibly loud helicopter, while someone else gets their luggage. The pilot waves at them before he lifts off.

The helpful, suit-clad man gives them a shallow bow. "Welcome to Crom Castle, Mr. Donovan. It's an honor to host you here."

Rebekah beams. "Surprise," she sings under her breath.

"We're staying at a castle?"

"If I may," the man interrupts. "My name is Charles Cannigan; I'll attend to you during your stay. Anything you require, I am at your service." He gestures toward a heavy set of doors.

Rebekah takes Matt's arm as Charles leads them inside, down a wide hall dotted with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. "This wing is reserved for your use. A boat is available as well, should you wish to explore the lake and environs."

Matt nods absently. This is a surprise, all right.

They stop in front of an engraved door, shining with lacquer and age. "Your suite," he says as he opens the door for them.

"Whoa," Matt blurts before he can stop himself. The room is enormous, walls and fabric and rugs a sumptuous, creamy white, with dark reddish wood furniture. Windows line one wall, veiled by sheer curtains.

Charles opens a side room. "A sitting room here, another bedroom, and a bathroom. We've taken the liberty of preparing a supper for you," he tells them, indicating a small table. "I am a phone call away at all times: my personal number is there on the desk. Please don't hesitate." He bows again and leaves.

Matt pushes aside a curtain, taking in the emerald green lawn, surrounded by tall trees and lilac bushes in full flower. Beyond a patch of forest, the disappearing light winks on the lake.

"What do you think?" Rebekah asks.

"This is so weird."

She swallows. "Good weird?"

"I don't know. This is… not my style."

"Actually," Rebekah counters, perking up, "this castle was built by the Chief of the Donovans. It's been the seat of your clan for generations. It's your home, in a manner of speaking. You belong here."

Matt clears his throat. Nothing could be further from the truth.

"I even had Charles prepare a family tree for you. To show you your history."

He turns to her and immediately regrets it. Her puppy dog eyes plead for reassurance. He looks back at the comfortingly emotionless lake. "Wow."

"What do you think?" she presses.

He should be thrilled. He should gladly take a sliver of ownership in this huge, fancy castle and some kind of historic lineage. He should, but none of it comes close to touching him. This world is hers, not his: she's the one with wealth and history. He's just an ordinary guy without a savings account. And no amount of research or travel will change that.

And yet, he knows she meant well. She is trying. So he puts on a smile. "I think I'm starving."

* * *

It's near midnight but Matt isn't ready to sleep. Rebekah has wandered off in search of the library. The moon is full, its light streaming invitingly through the windows. The night is warm and nothing about being inside feels right to him, so he goes for a walk.

He roams aimlessly, across a lawn that has to be bigger than four football fields, sloping down toward trees and the lake. The grass gives way to ferns and old leaves under the trees' canopy. Soon he's at the edge of the water. It laps against the rocks. He sits on a boulder and looks for constellations he recognizes, but he doesn't really know how.

What was he thinking, coming on this trip? It was a terrible mistake. It feels wrong to be so far from home, to try to be carefree, especially here. In a castle. He contemplates the ways he could get back to the states on his own. He could have Charles get him to Dublin and wait tables there until he made enough to buy a ticket home. Stay at a hostel. He could pull double shifts and get back to Mystic Falls in five or six months if he saved everything he makes.

Mystic Falls. The thought fills him with regret and the memory of dread.

The whole point of coming on this trip was to get away, to let Rebekah show him a world he had never seen, would never be able to see without her generosity. So it's weird – of course it's weird. But the alternative, more of the same dead-end life in the horror capital of Virginia, is unthinkable.

This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance_. Quit sulking and make the most of it_, he tells himself.

"Here you are," he hears behind him.

"Fresh air," Matt says, turning. She's got that look on her face again, like he could be easily spooked.

"You hate this. You want to go home." It's not a question.

"I don't," he assures her and himself at the same time. "But this isn't going to be a tour of castles all summer, is it?"

"Just this first place, for you, because your family has a long, important history. Longer and more important than mine."

He takes a deep breath and decides in that moment to open up to her. To trust her a little. "My dad left before I was born. Never knew him. I met him once when I was a kid. He was an asshole. That whole side of the family – _this_ whole side – I don't know them."

"I didn't realize."

Matt nods, stares out over the lake. "I'm not this person. I'm not castles and helicopters and I don't need three forks to eat dinner. I'm just a guy. I'm never going to be any different than that. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay," she whispers with a hint of a smile.

* * *

When Matt wakes up in the small bedroom off the sitting room, noon sun fills their suite. Rebekah is out, but brunch is laid out on the table, with a newspaper and a pot of coffee. He pours himself a mug and stares out the window. His thoughts are sluggish and his head is pounding: jet lag. He flips through the paper, page after page of local stories and soccer stats. It's weird not to have anything to do, no job to get ready for, no phone to call and check on friends. No danger to avoid.

Everything is fine, and Matt might be slightly bored. He smears red jam on toast and watches the lake while he takes a bite. He keeps eating until hardly anything is left, even the smoked salmon which he always thought he hated, even the roasted tomatoes that looked beaten on the plate. He's drinking the last of the coffee when Rebekah returns.

"You're awake." Her skin glows with a slight burn that darkens the freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, from which a few wisps around her face have escaped.

"Take a walk?"

"I took the boat into town, actually."

He's about to ask her what she found there but her lips are pressed tight and there's an intensity in her eyes, a plea. It occurs to him that she can't exist on toast and coffee for the entire summer. She'll need blood, and if she's trying to be good, she won't be able to get it anywhere but at a blood bank. All of which is her business, not his. "Oh," he says instead.

Rebekah's expression softens immediately. She sinks down into a seat across the table from Matt. "Did you sleep enough?"

Matt scratches his head, smoothing his unruly hair. "Is that even possible? I guess. The bed was really comfortable."

"Not too small?"

(The question is an echo of last night: "I'm gonna sleep in here," Matt volunteered, hovering in the doorway of the extra bedroom.

"But that bed is barely big enough for a child," Rebekah countered. "You could –"

"No," he interrupted, a little too loud, "this is better."

She took a sharp breath. "But -" she started.

He crossed the space between them in one step and gathered her, stiffly, into a hug. "Get some sleep," he whispered into her hair. He wasn't rejecting her, just… they weren't there yet.)

He shrugs, meeting her eyes. "It was a little small, yeah."

Matt watches a wisp of a grin flash across Rebekah's face and quickly vanish. "I've arranged for the helicopter today. We can stay in Dublin tonight, and then, well… where do you want to go next?"

"Me? I don't know."

"Anywhere, Matt. Where have you always wanted to go, since you were a child?"

"Honestly? No idea. I mean, the possibility was never real enough to dwell on it. Where do _you _want to go?"

"No, it's your turn."

"But I really don't know."

She makes a space in front of her on the small table and folds her hands there. "Well, what do you like to eat? We'll go wherever your favorite food is."

Matt sighs. "Burgers and fries."

"Back to the states it is, then," she teases.

"Fine, fine." He leans back, studying the ceiling. "Paris."

"Really?" she gasps.

That decides it. He grins without looking at her. "Definitely."

Her head cants to the side. "I'm surprised, to be honest. What do you want to see there?"

What was it she said in the parking lot? "The Louvre. And other stuff."

"Matt."

He locks eyes with hers. "I want to see every inch of the Louvre. They keep art there, right?"

"You should choose what _you _want."

"I don't _know _what I want. I don't really know what there is – I mean, Germany had Nazis; there's pizza in Italy. Spain has… bulls? But you want to show me the Louvre, and I'm sure there's stuff in Paris I'd like, too. They must have food there that's good."

"Amazing, truly. Croissants like clouds and magical sauces and the chefs, their technique is masterful. Oh, and! They have crepes!"

"Aren't those, like, pancakes?"

"Not remotely," she laughs. "They've got stands on every corner. You can get them slathered in chocolate, or filled with ham and cheese, or mushrooms, or strawberry preserves, or, I don't know, probably escargot even."

"You had me until escargot."

"That seals it. You're eating a snail in France."

* * *

Less than two hours later, they have tickets to Paris for the following morning and keys to two hotel rooms in a sleepy artists' neighborhood of Dublin. Matt feels right here, amid second-hand stores and a pub every fifty feet. Aside from the accent, there's something about this place that, even having never been here before, makes him feel at home.

He walks taller, offering his arm to Rebekah as they stroll the streets around their hotel. After dinner, they pass a pub with live music roaring from inside, loose and spontaneous. Rebekah asks to stop in; Matt suspects it's more for his benefit more than hers. At the bar, Matt yells over the din for a couple of beers, and then he follows Rebekah to one of the few empty tables in the place, near the band.

Matt is spellbound. The musicians are all seated in the far corner: two guitarists, both singing, a fiddle player, and a woman playing a wide, flat drum, eyes closed, face serene. Nothing amplified. The singers raise their voices in close harmony, not in English, and the style is folk-like, but somehow current. Real.

One song ends and the drummer begins a new beat, faster and more insistent, and the fiddler leaps in with a shrieking slide. There's a mounting cheer – the crowd knows this song – and then people begin to stand, making their way to small patches of empty floor, already starting to dance. They bounce and sway; some sing along.

Rebekah is carried away. She appears lit from within, dancing in her seat, just barely holding herself back. Normally, Matt is too self-conscious to dance – he may have danced in public twice in his life, including once at Homecoming sophomore year when Elena dragged him out onto the dance floor. But he is somehow disengaged from the world here, and at the same time newly plugged in. The energy in the room is infectious and one of the guitarists starts shaking his head as if to say "come on, man!" So he stands up and offers Rebekah his hand.

He pulls her up and into his arms. She looks like she's just been given a present. He has no idea how to dance to this music and Rebekah is much bouncier than he is, but they find a way to move together. He reminds himself that no one cares if he can't dance, that no one is watching him be hulking and awkward and not know where to put his feet. Rebekah stretches and curves with confidence, pressing into his chest one minute, leaning back against his arm the next, urging him this way and that.

The band doesn't let the crowd down, spooling out song after song with the same exuberant beat, winding the dancers up and keeping them there. Matt loses his inhibitions bit by bit, eventually pushing their table back with his hip to make more room for them. He picks up moves from the other dancers and even tries spinning Rebekah a few times. When the last song of the set slowly pulls into its final chords, he leans her backward into a low dip.

But she's heavier than she looks and he doesn't have the grip he needs and she didn't know what was coming so her footing is off and it happens too quickly to stop it: Rebekah hits the floor, mouth wide open in shock.

"Matt!"

"Shit! Sorry," he mutters, crouching to help her up.

* * *

Matt and Rebekah end up at the bar with Deck, one of the guitarists and the nephew of the bartender. Over the next hours patrons leave, the rest of the musicians head home, and even the bartender eventually drifts away.

Matt likes Deck. He appears to be about ten years older than Matt, weathered but not too much, and full of stories about gigs gone wrong and women that made it worth it. He refills their glasses frequently from a bottle of whiskey he fished out from under the bar, and seems to have a mile-high alcohol tolerance.

At some point, maybe an hour ago, Deck left to go to the bathroom and never came back. Now Rebekah is curled around her glass, her eyes misting over with memory. Or with being snockered, as Deck called it.

She jerks her chin toward the door where Deck was last seen. "He reminds me of Alexander."

"Alexander who came back from the dead to kill me? Awesome."

"He wasn't always a killer. He wanted to be good. Not his fault he became a hunter."

Matt slugs a mouthful of whiskey he definitely doesn't need. Standing up is going to be a challenge.

She continues, waving her glass toward the kitchen door. "Maybe it's wishful thinking. Probably. But sometimes, he was… there was…"

"He was playing you, 'Bekah." Her eyes flash with delight for a second, and then she's back to staring into her glass. "Way I heard it, he wanted to kill you and your whole family. You couldn't trust him. I mean, you shouldn't have."

She swirls her drink, withdrawing into herself again. "He was good at heart. He acted like he loved me."

It's quiet for a while; neither of them is sober enough to measure time all that well. Matt lets what Rebekah said ferment, and at some point he starts speaking his thoughts aloud.

"I don't know if Elena ever loved me. But I loved her. I still love her."

Rebekah sits back on the stool, scowling. "Bitch."

"But she was your friend."

"We both wanted the same thing is all. Of course, we failed, so…"

Matt suspects the loss of the cure means more to her than a simple failed plan, but Rebekah sets her jaw and takes a swig and that is the end of that discussion.

"I mean before," she continues, "with you, with Stefan. Elena never actually opens her heart, even back when she was human. It's what kept you reeled in, and Stefan, and now Damon. Everyone loves her because there's this promise that she might love you back."

His first impulse is to argue because that doesn't seem exactly true. But leaving Elena and recent near-tragedies behind is part of what this trip is about, so he lets it go. "But you and Stefan, right? I don't get it. What is it about him?"

She traces along a scratch in the bar's varnish. "With Stefan, you can see there's something going on under the surface. He smolders. It draws you in; Nik saw it, too. He was jealous of both of us. That was a bonus. I was souring on Nik then – kind of a cycle, I guess." She rolls her eyes. "But your question: Stefan had depth. And he acted like he cared about me."

"You don't think he really did?"

She slowly drains her glass, then holds it out for a refill. "Maybe if I were human. But anyway, why did you and Caroline break up? Because of Tyler?"

He takes a swig of whiskey, holding it on his tongue until it burns. "No. She was…" There is a flicker of concern in his muddy, intoxicated mind about what he's about to say, but the thought fades before it can take hold. "He was into her, I guess, but I'm pretty sure she didn't cheat on me, if that's what you mean. It's just… she was a vampire. I couldn't pretend that wasn't huge. On some level, she wanted to kill me. I mean, I couldn't _date_ a vampire, no matter how much she acted like everything was normal."

He stares into his glass, waiting for her to say something dismissive about Caroline, but she doesn't. And he has more to say, about how things are different now. But when he looks up, she glances guiltily away, first at her own drink, then at the door.

"It's late," Matt agrees, following her eyes.

She looks… something. Upset, maybe. "We should go. Plane in the morning."

* * *

They don't speak on the way back to the hotel.

When Matt goes to unlock the door to his room Rebekah stops him, touching his hand for a split second before yanking it away like it's on fire. "I'm a vampire and you're not an idiot. I've done bad things to loads of people, including you," she begins, "and I'm older than dirt and nearly impossible to kill."

Matt scrambles to follow what she's trying to say. His head is thick and slow.

"All the fancy things, the castle and… I'm not trying to buy your attention."

"I didn't think you were," he says, a reflex.

"My point is," she continues, straightening, turning to face him with a slight edge in her eyes, "you don't have to pretend. I know better than to expect you'll ever like me. You don't have to dance with me. I'll still take you to France and wherever else, even if -"

"I like you," he interrupts. "I mean, it's complicated, but… Bekah, I'm not pretending."


	2. Chapter 2

_Another installment for you all, accompanied by a kiss on either cheek, comme les francais, and my gratitude for your kind words of encouragement.  
_

* * *

Rebekah may have gotten under Matt's skin.

He lies flat on his back in the dark, two hours left until he agreed to meet her in the lobby, probably six hours until they land in Paris, and sleep is proving impossible. He keeps remembering her body pressed against his on the dance floor.

Not remembering. Feeling.

But he's not going to get up and knock on her door. They are not there yet.

He is cautious in relationships, keeps his head clear. It took months of stolen glances and lingering shoulder squeezes before he asked Elena if he could kiss her, that summer before freshman year. _Asked_, his heart in his throat, and she quietly said yes before she leaned in to kiss him. There was no mistake because he moved slowly. Same with Caroline, as much as it frustrated her. Where other people rush in – Vicki, Caroline, Tyler – he waits. Not that it solves everything, it just keeps the complications to a minimum.

Rebekah's kiss in the parking lot was a shock. In the moment, it was overshadowed by the giant explosion about to tear them both to pieces. But he can't forget it. She launched herself at him, past her fear, past his. She was brave enough to kiss him and save his life at the same time, and what did he give her in return? An under-enthused yes to her invitation, with probably the cruelest thing he's ever said as a caveat: "what happens on the road stays on the road." She deserves more than that. No wonder she thought he was faking it.

But she moves so fast, and with such determination. Three days from non-explosion to airport, three days to quit his job and send a letter to his mother's last known address, three days for Rebekah to somehow get him a passport that should have taken six months to process. She's strong and impulsive, a combination that makes her dangerous as a vampire, but also exciting as a… what is she to him? He can't say yet.

She's just on the other side of this thin wall. If the air conditioner would turn off, he could hear her breathing. It's bizarre, this constant near-intimacy they've begun. Why didn't he think to take her on a date before they left? Even a movie, or dinner, or a walk around the block would have helped. But no, they are essentially on the longest first date in history because she's cute and has no patience. Their intimacy is all the more pronounced and awkward because they have no past to rest it on. Nothing but a few short conversations and the memory of her eager lips against his, once.

There's no question that being impulsive is bad. Being impulsive causes mistakes. Being impulsive with an Original vampire is a recipe for instant, gruesome death. But. Still.

He flomps his head into the pillow a few times, then throws his arm over his eyes, but it doesn't help. He feels her hips against his, her back twisting against his hand. If only his brain could tell the rest of him that wanting something and not immediately getting it is not the deadly thing in this scenario.

* * *

This flight is easier: a quick shot from Dublin to Paris that ends almost before it begins. They are in a cab moments after collecting their bags, speeding toward the Eiffel Tower. Matt watches trees and cars and buildings whiz past from the back seat.

The cab driver pulls over halfway down a street in a lively neighborhood. People fill the sidewalks, stopping to chat, waiting for a leashed dog to piss on a tree. While Rebekah pays, Matt unloads the trunk. It chafes, but why fight it? He won't be paying for anything and there's no way they'd be here if it was the other way around. But he can lift things, so he does.

The lobby is dark, sparsely laid out with a few velvet sofas and tables. Mirrors rise to high ceilings, once painted bright reds and yellows but long since muted with the remains of cigarette smoke, which lingers in the air. A tall woman hands them keys and a hand-drawn map of the neighborhood with little symbols indicating shops and necessities: a steaming cup of coffee, a baguette, a thermometer, subway tracks. She speaks French quickly, with the undertone of a dare, but Rebekah rattles it right back at her. It mostly sounds like they're speaking English backwards and they both have colds. Listening to Rebekah, he wonders how many languages she speaks, and if it's easier for vampires to learn them, or if she learned like anyone else would, after living here a while and struggling to make herself understood.

Their third floor rooms are comfortable and small, joined by a tiny tile bathroom that smells heavily of rose soap. Matt's window opens onto the street; across the street from the hotel, people drink and talk at café tables on the sidewalk. He sits back on the double bed, its springs whining in response, and notices he's not exactly bored. Just… at ease. Kind of free. It's new.

The bathroom door squeaks open an inch, and then there's a quiet knock. "Are you decent?"

"What do you think I'm doing in here?" he chuckles.

Rebekah swings the door open wide. "Damn. Fully clothed."

He smirks, standing. "Ready to go?"

* * *

Matt feels a change in himself. He's invigorated. Optimistic. No longer on high alert. Rebekah suggests a cab but he scoffs and offers his elbow. The afternoon is warm and bright, and so are they.

They walk past shops, parks, fountains, metro stations. They fall into short silences. They stop for small dogs because Rebekah squeals like their adorableness causes her physical pain when she sees them, and only petting them can cure her ache. They encounter a crepe stand, and it turns out the only things better than crepes are French strawberries.

At the foot of the Basilica of Sacre Coeur, a white stone church on what seems like a mountain in the middle of the city, Rebekah sits down on a bench. "Isn't it beautiful?" she muses, gazing upward at it.

Matt takes in the double set of broad stairways leading upward. There have to be at least two hundred steps from bottom to top, probably more. "Race you," he taunts, launching toward them.

"Wait!" she calls, but he's already sprinting away. It feels good to run, to exert himself. It's been too long since he had a workout. These aren't as steep as the bleachers he used to run before practice, but there are so many more of them. He resolves (thirty, thirty-one) to go running on this trip, as many mornings as he can manage. He needs time alone to think, to push his body in the way it needs to be pushed.

A tourist whistles as he presses past them.

"Gaining on you, Donovan," Rebekah calls. He knows she could whiz past him without a second thought, but the fact that she's not, that she's playing along, is something he appreciates. She prefers fun to winning the contest, even or maybe especially because she could win effortlessly if she wanted to. And this (one hundred and seven, not even halfway up) is pure, kid-like fun.

His heart pounds but he digs deep and picks up speed. "Not a chance," he hisses over his shoulder.

The last ten steps burn like acid in his thighs but Rebekah is at his heels so he takes them two at a time, until finally he's at the top step, bent over, wheezing and laughing at the same time. He feels Rebekah's hand on the small of his back. "It _is_ beautiful up here," she whispers with reverence.

He waves in her direction. "Right. Yeah."

"Matt, stand up."

The city sprawls before them. It is infinite. There is so much to look at that it takes him a few minutes to feel like he's even begun to really see the view. "Amazing."

* * *

Rebekah goes inside the basilica, reads the engravings on the outside, the monuments to men who sacrificed themselves for one cause or another. She reports back to Matt, who hears but doesn't listen. He leans against the stone railing, gazing out over the city. He could stay here forever.

"I think I want to climb a mountain," he responds when she asks him if he's ready to go back down and see Montmartre.

"A mountain?"

"Yeah," he says, "a big one."

"Everest?"

"Maybe." He can't tear his eyes from the horizon. "Is there a mountain in Africa?"

"There's Kilimanjaro."

"That. I want to climb that."

She leans her hip against the railing beside him. "All right. Should we leave tomorrow?"

He laughs and turns to her. The light in her eyes catches him off guard; it is strikingly immediate after gazing over a city for nearly an hour. "Not yet. But someday, Africa."

"Come on, then," she says, slipping her hand around his elbow and leading him down the steps, slowly this time.

* * *

Among the steep, narrow alleys of Montmartre, the afternoon light is turning a faint pink. "It's what the song is about, the pink light here," Rebekah explains, out of nowhere.

"What song?"

"You know, _that_ song. La vie en rose." She hums a few vague notes.

"If it's French and it's not fries, I don't know it."

She wraps her other hand around his bicep, catching his arm. "You're not the caveman you think you are, Matt."

He's about to respond with something like _how do you know? _when Rebekah pauses beside a small bistro. The front wall is open to the street and there are maybe four tables in the whole place. "Elijah says the chef here is a genius."

"Are there strawberries?"

Rebekah chuckles and gets the attention of a waiter, who seats them close to the street. Soon they're halfway down a bottle of red wine and Matt is facing a plate of snails.

"Just think of them as mushrooms drenched in melted butter and garlic," Rebekah suggests.

"But they're not."

"Maybe they are," she counters, failing to hold back a smirk. "How do you know unless you try them?"

"They're slimy bugs with no legs."

"So they'll go down easy."

Matt gurgles his disgust, lifting his glass for another swig of wine. "You first."

She picks up her fork and reaches daintily across the table, skewering one and letting the butter drip for a moment. Her lips open slightly and even though he knows that it's so she can eat a snail, it's still sexy as hell. She appears to realize the affect she has, judging by the way she drops it onto her tongue and chews, maintaining eye contact until she swallows. "Your turn," she sings.

He gives her a playful glare as he registers the multiple layers of this exchange. Yes, there is flirting, and it doesn't feel half bad. But there is also power at stake, something he has sorely missed since they left Mystic Falls. And the fact is, whether or not he eats a snail is entirely within his control. Of course, not eating one would kill the mood. And he has to remember that she played along on the stairs, even though she didn't have to. So it is, actually, his turn, and he decides he's willing to take it. "Fine," he announces, picking up his fork. He scans the plate. "Which of you sorry bugs wants to be food?"

* * *

It's dark when they leave the restaurant, but still warm. Montmartre is strung with lights, dangling on cords between trees, balconies, and street lamps. Street musicians have taken up residence on stoops and in courtyards, strumming and singing. Couples walk arm in arm. So do Matt and Rebekah.

"What do you think of Paris now?" she asks.

He shrugs. "So far, so good, but I'm going to need a ton of art tomorrow. I was promised tons of art."

Rebekah chuckles. "Tons."

They stroll, not exactly aimlessly, but nearly. A comfortable silence settles on them both. He's having a good time with Rebekah, as weird as that is. He likes the weight of her hand on the inside of his elbow, the sway of her hips as she walks in step with him. The way her lips curl into a flirtatious smile at the slightest suggestion.

"This is romantic," Rebekah eventually sighs.

Matt's shoulders stiffen; the word sets off immediate, clanging alarm bells. Inside his head, without any real definitions, he can safely enjoy all of this. But calling it romantic out loud is dangerous.

She must sense the shift; she stops. "I mean, the night. All the people, the lights. It's a beautiful night. That's all."

He doesn't respond right away. He may even be holding his breath. Because no matter how drawn he is to her mouth at this very second, no matter how easy it is getting to forget what she is capable of, he needs to remember.

"Matt, I didn't mean you and me," she backpedals, sliding her arm out from around his. "_We_ are not romantic."

"Rebekah," he begins. But what can he say? They aren't. They shouldn't be.

"Like you said. I'm a vampire. You don't trust me." Her eyes sparkle with defiance.

"That's not…" He can't finish.

She takes a few lingering steps away. He follows.

"I trust you," Matt begins again after a few blocks. "I just don't trust the vampire part of you."

They keep walking. Matt starts to recognize awnings and street signs; they're getting close to their hotel.

"It's not like werewolves," Rebekah finally says. "I decide what I do."

This isn't news; maybe it's supposed to be comforting, but it almost makes things worse. It brings into perfect focus the fact that it was her, 100% her, that chose to kill Elena. And him. "Look, you said it yourself," he reasons, "you did terrible things. Not lately, but for a long damn time before. How do I know you're not heading for an evil vampire relapse?"

Rebekah's hands fall limply at her sides. The breeze lifts a few strands of her hair, and like the jerk he suspects he is, he doesn't miss the way it exposes her neck sloping toward her shoulder. She faces Matt squarely, a quiet earnestness burning in her eyes. "I'm not. I want to be a good person, like you are."

It's exactly what someone like him would want to hear from someone like her. "Why? The cure is gone."

"Because more than anything, Matt, I want to be worthy of you."

* * *

_Do not be discouraged, mes amis! The romance of Paris has an effect on us all..._


	3. Chapter 3

_What a delight it is to have you all with me on this. Thank you all for your generous comments and favorites and wonderfulness, and double triple fudge-covered thanks (with candied pecans and hot caramel sauce) to CreepingMuse, who patiently consulted and stood by me as I felt around in the dark for this chapter, and then, once written, told me truths about how to make it sing. I am lucky to know you, my brilliant friend._

**Chapter 3**

The Louvre is a marble palace filled with paintings and sculptures. Any second, Matt expects a king or duke, someone royal, to come around a corner. For the first time on this trip, he feels like a tourist here, conspicuously underdressed in loose, slightly ratty shorts, especially next to Rebekah, who glows in a pale sundress the exact color of the actual sun. The best he can do is to whisper, to counteract the effect of the loud Americans in every room.

He doesn't know what he's looking at. There are portraits, landscapes, the frequent still life with an apple and a goblet; he prefers the pictures that show something strange, unique, even ugly. He and Rebekah float through rooms in parallel. Their timing seems to match up.

In front of a painting of a side of beef, he stops. It's disgusting and great at the same time, the way the two hind legs are splayed out like two arms in victory, the sense of weight, the faint undertone of red in the white, torn flesh.

"Rembrandt," Rebekah says, stepping up beside him.

"That's what the sign says," he whispers.

"Do you like it?"

He doesn't, exactly. It's more that he's drawn to it, that he doesn't want to stop looking at it. "Makes me hungry for a burger," he teases, and she laughs, loud and high.

"My favorite sculpture is in the next room," she confides, tugging gently at the sleeve of his shirt.

He follows Rebekah toward two marble figures, intertwined, sprawling on the floor. One body with huge wings cradles an ordinary human in his arms, and their lips are almost joined.

"Cupid awakening Psyche with a kiss," Rebekah explains.

"She's missing some clothes," he whispers, another quip but Rebekah doesn't respond this time. She's frozen, gazing reverently at the smooth white marble.

"It's smoother than silk," she breathes, "like skin. It feels exactly like skin."

Matt wonders when she touched it. Certainly not recently. As it is, the guard in the corner is glaring suspiciously in their direction.

"Psyche was doomed to an eternal sleep but Cupid awakens her with a kiss."

"Greek mythology?"

"Roman. Same thing, mostly. The power of his love brings her back."

He shifts his weight, partially because he's getting a little tired, and partially because they both know, better than most, what's natural and what takes magic to accomplish. "Isn't he a god, though? I mean, it has to be magic that does it, not just plain old love."

She whirls at him, barely holding back an outburst. "Love revives her and this is my favorite sculpture in the entire world so shut up."

* * *

It's three in the afternoon and two thirds of the museum is still waiting to be seen, but Matt has learned that he can only look at so much art before his brain starts to melt. He catches up to Rebekah in front of a large, dark canvas. "Listen," he whispers over her shoulder, "I either have to sit in a corner with my eyes closed for a while or we have to leave."

She follows him out into the hot, breezeless afternoon.

Matt takes a deep breath and dives in. "Can I ask you something? Klaus is a psychotic asshole."

She laughs lightly. "Not precisely a question."

"Why did you stay with him?"

She doesn't answer right away, and Matt worries that he went too far, that he dove into something more personal than he realized without warning or warm up.

"Klaus has a way of putting things," Rebekah begins when they reach the Seine. "He values loyalty more than anything, and in the beginning, it was us against the world. We were the only ones like us. Even nature itself shut us out. If I left him, I was betraying him, and he was my family. So we stuck together. Elijah too, at first. It took a long time for him to realize how selfish, how diabolical Klaus really was. Is. Still, Elijah thought about leaving for decades before he actually vanished. And then he was just gone. Didn't warn me or invite me along. Just wasn't there."

"Couldn't you have left, too?"

"It seems so simple, the way you say it. But by then, no, I don't think I could have. I don't honestly know how Elijah did it."

They find a narrow bridge – enough room for a car or pedestrians, not both – and cross over.

"You lose touch with the world. It changes, but you don't. I try – I always try – to reconnect, but I haven't had much luck. Alexander, Stefan, and others… Veronique, Sasha. Younger vampires are best, but unless they're brand new, even they come unmoored. And when things inevitably fell apart, Klaus was always there. He treated me like a stupid, incapable child, but at least he never changed."

Of course. If she were a loner like Elijah, maybe living so completely apart from the rest of the world wouldn't be so bad. But Rebekah craves connection, plain as day, and the only connection that she's been able to rely on, as destructive as it has been, is with Klaus.

They keep walking toward towers rising not too far away.

"What about now?" Matt asks.

He waits but she doesn't answer, and soon they're standing in the courtyard of the cathedral of Notre Dame. "Bet it's not as warm in there," Rebekah says, heading for the entrance.

She's right, of course. The cathedral is cool and dark and quiet. Every footstep echoes. There are perhaps fifty people inside but no one says a word; they wander up and down the aisles, peek into side spaces or, like Matt, find a pew and lean back into it so they can gaze up into the impossibly high ceiling. Arches extend so high he expects to see a cloud pass beneath them.

Matt can feel the age of this place, deep in his bones. He thought Mystic Falls had history, but he has never in his life been inside a place as ancient as this. It's as if the earth itself carved it, before any human lived. The way the sound dissipates, reaching upward like the arches, fills him with a sort of religious reverence that has no target – he's never been much for prayer or church. Might have been different if he'd had access to a place like this, he has to admit.

Eventually, Rebekah joins him in the pew. "This place," Matt marvels. There's more that he doesn't know how to say, about the way the austere, carved stones have lasted through uncountable human lifetimes, each as meaningless, as vanishingly short as the next.

"It takes your breath away." She settles in beside him. "I never imagined it would look like this when they laid that first stone."

Her words are more chilling than the incense-stained air.

"It was under construction for generations. You have to understand, this was the first -"

"When?" Matt interrupts, dread preemptively pooling in his gut.

"When what?" she asks.

Asking this question feels like teetering on a precipice. "The first stone."

Rebekah is silent for a moment, her breath shallow. She senses the cliff, too. "The twelfth century."

"You're older than this cathedral."

She nods slowly. "By about a century."

In an instant, he is stalking down the middle aisle and straight out into the bright courtyard. He can hear her footsteps behind him. "Matt, wait," she calls, gaining on him as he slows. "Don't act surprised."

Matt whirls around at her. "I can't even process how old you are."

"But you already knew! We were _just_ talking about how I'm one of the oldest vampires in existence."

"Yeah? Well, it's one thing to be a thousand years old and a whole nother thing to be older than the oldest building in Paris!"

"No, it's exactly the same thing. _Which you knew_."

"I might have known it, but… fuck, Rebekah."

She looks right into the sunlight, scraping her bottom lip against her top teeth, before turning back to him with a glare. "You're such a hypocrite. You know what I can do as a thousand year old vampire? I can just wait around a few hundred years and make money without even trying. Money I can use to, oh I don't know, travel the world with ungrateful boys."

He folds his arms across his chest. "Just because I haven't said it out loud doesn't mean I'm ungrateful."

She purses her lips. "I thought you were one of the good ones."

"Nope. Just an ungrateful boy," he taunts.

That sets her off. She lets her rage begin to fly. "Over the centuries I've met a lot of people, Matt, so when I say you're one of the good ones – all current evidence to the contrary – I know what I'm fucking talking about!"

"It doesn't matter, though, because you're older than the oldest thing I have ever seen in my pathetic, nothing life. You're older than a cathedral, Rebekah! You're a goddamn fossil!"

"I may be a fossil, but I'm the same damn person who bought you lunch and breakfast and plane tickets and a bloody helicopter ride."

And before Matt can respond, she is gone.

* * *

Matt wanders around the Ile de la Cite, Notre Dame's island in the middle of the Seine. It takes him an hour to wind down from their argument – or beginning of an argument, which she abandoned like a spoiled brat so she could have the last word. Of course she did. She has to be the one with every droplet of control. She always has to be the winner, the prom queen, the one with a knife in your gut.

He winds through narrow streets and down wide boulevards – not many, and when he starts to recognize the same shops, he heads back to the courtyard in front of the stupidly ancient cathedral. On a bench in the shade of what is probably a several-hundred-year-old tree, he sits down and stares at the stark, deep shadows against sun-bleached stones. Now that the adrenaline has drained away, he's not so much angry as just stuck. Stuck between the facts about Rebekah (that she is geologically ancient, that she is a bloodsucking monster, that she craps out on arguments before they're over) and the truths that he feels about her (that she yearns for good and love and humanity, that she is generous beyond imagining, that the way her face lights up when he's kind to her rattles his whole foundation).

"Get me a scoop of chocolate!" he hears from the doorway of the cathedral. Six children race across the stones, followed by several adults. One man waits in the sun, watching them leave, and then notices Matt. He walks slowly, and as he comes closer, Matt can see that he is on the older side of middle-aged. Kind face. Loose khakis, hot pink fanny pack, squinty smile. "American, right?"

Matt nods. "What gave it away?"

The man shrugs, gesturing toward the bench, asking to sit, and Matt shrugs back. He sits. "I'm Jerry," he says, offering his big, weathered hand.

"Matt."

"Let me guess. You just finished college and you're here in Europe with a backpack and a guitar."

He shifts. "Not exactly."

"Okay. Summer with extended family in…. Germany? And you're taking a weekend in Paris alone?"

"No, just graduated high school, actually," cracking a grin. It's the first time he's said it out loud, and it sounds pretty damn great.

Jerry leans back against the bench. "Play any sports?"

"Football, sir." The mere mention of football and it's 'sir' to every man older than he is. It's just what happens.

"Running back?"

"Quarterback, actually."

"Good job, good job." Jerry lifts one thigh with both hands and bends his knee back and forth. "I played baseball, myself. Iowa."

"Virginia," Matt counters.

"Never been. Is it nice?"

Where to begin? "Not really, to be honest."

Jerry laughs. "Neither is Iowa. Not really. But I met my wife there. Seems like a million years ago."

Matt tries to picture the adults running after those children moments ago. "Which one was she?"

"She died last year," he says, a little quietly, but lightly. Gently.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, she always wanted to come to Paris. I never did. Never wanted to go anywhere, really. She knew it, too, so she never really pushed me. Used to call me grandpa, even when we were first dating."

Matt chuckles lightly. "She did?"

"I was, though. She had me pinned. She was a spitfire, a young woman till the day she died. Full of energy, full of spunk. You know, her hair stayed blond when all her sisters went gray? I swear. But me? I was always old."

"Huh," Matt says, because he really has no idea what the man is talking about.

"Everybody has an age, son. An age that matches who they are. Maybe you've already reached it, and you'll start to notice over the next few years that you kind of chafe at the expectation that you'll 'act your age,' that you'll 'grow up.' Or maybe you look around at your friends and wonder how they can be such idiots, because you're really thirty or forty in your head, and when you get there, you'll feel right for the first time in your whole life."

Matt starts to understand.

"For me," Jerry continues, "it was sixty-two. Three years ago. Finally, everything just clicked, and I realized I had always been sixty-two, even when I was a little kid warning my friends not to wade into the creek 'cause they might get hurt."

The thought is like a grenade going off in his head: everybody has an age, no matter how long they live. No matter how long, even if it's sixty five years, or ninety. Or a thousand.

"You must think I'm crazy," Jerry chuckles, bending his other knee a few times.

Matt turns to the man with a wide, grateful smile. "Not at all. Makes perfect sense."

"Yeah? How old are you really, would you say?"

He sighs, leaning back again. "You could probably call me grandpa."

Jerry laughs and pats his shoulder. "Hey, there you are!" he calls, just as a little girl beings to climb carefully onto his lap.

"Evie wanted to bring you the ice cream but she woulda dropped it so Mommy said I could. Here." She proudly holds a cup of chocolate ice cream right in Jerry's face with one hand, balancing a cup of pale pink ice cream in the other.

"This is Melissa, my granddaughter. Mellie, this is Matt, my new friend."

"Hi," she says without looking at him. She licks a drip of her own ice cream, almost letting the chocolate cup fall, but Jerry catches it and sends Melissa off with a pat on the leg.

"Emma would've loved this," Jerry muses, watching the rest of his family collect nearby. "Don't wait, son. Don't ever wait. Nobody lives forever." He sucks in a quick breath, then stands and holds the untouched chocolate ice cream out to Matt.

"Oh, no thank you," he rushes to respond.

"Nonsense. I know how grandpas love chocolate ice cream."

* * *

Matt waits until dusk, but Rebekah doesn't return. Finally, he starts back toward their hotel. It's probably four miles, maybe more, but Matt doesn't have a single Euro in his pocket and his Visa card is maxed out. Foot power is all he's got.

Just as well. This will give him time to figure out how to fix things. Because he's not stuck anymore. Now he knows for sure what's true, what's important. And that he blew it.

The facts are useless. They don't mean a thing. Okay, sure, she's a thousand years old, but inside she's sixteen and she always, always has been. She's easily influenced, and hopelessly romantic, and needs reassurance because she's sixteen. She could live to be a million and she'd still be sixteen.

And a thousand years ago, the human life she should have had was snatched away. But she still wants to live that human life, like any sixteen year old does, and wanting it makes her more human than most people he's known in his short life. That's what motivates her to be good – Matt may be a role model right now, but it's her desire for humanity that will keep her on the straight and narrow, even when Matt is long gone.

Which he will be someday, old and wrinkled and sore like Jerry, and Rebekah will still be sixteen, inside and out. And then Matt will die, and it will be too late.

He breaks into a jog.

* * *

Matt doesn't even bother with the elevator. He takes the stairs up to their floor two at a time, keys already in his hand, and swings his door open wide, thinking – hoping – Rebekah will be waiting for him in his room.

She's not there. But on his bed is a plane ticket.

Matt picks it up. _One way, Paris to London, London to Dulles, Dulles to Richmond. Matthew Donovan. 9:22am. Tomorrow. _

Shit. He opens his bathroom door and knocks on hers from inside the bathroom. "Rebekah? Are you in there?"

There's a creak, maybe.

"Rebekah, look," he begins. "I'm sorry."

There's so much he wants to say. So much he has to say. But he's not great at this sort of thing, and he knows it.

"I've been a jerk. I should have acted more grateful. I should have told you how amazing this whole thing is. It's just that – it's hard to accept so much. It was like 'no big deal, I'll just show you all of these amazing places in the world,' but that was huge for me, because it was the only chance I'd ever have to get out of there. I just know it. The minute we're back in Mystic Falls, I'm bussing tables and that's it. I have nothing to give you that even comes close to this kind of gift. Which is why I've been an asshole. But I really am grateful, more than I can say."

He waits for her to open the door. Or to say something. But she doesn't.

"And then I completely wigged out about the cathedral, which was stupid. It just – it was so weird to think that you were that old. Yeah, I knew you were. But I didn't have anything to compare it to. And then, that place is so huge, and even the air inside it is old, just unbelievably, historically old."

Another creak.

"That's not the point. The point is it freaked me out, and it shouldn't have. If I had been paying attention to what was important, it wouldn't have." He takes a deep breath and hopes that he can explain this the way it goes in his head. "I realized after you left that you're still you. I know that sounds stupid, because of course you are, but living as long as you have, and being a vampire… none of that is who you really are."

He leans his forehead against the hard, unforgiving wood of the door.

"You're a girl, a sixteen year old girl with a huge, generous heart, who wants goodness and fun and who maybe doesn't realize that she already_ is_ good on the inside. You're a teenage girl, no matter when you were born – it's your personality. You want to be connected to people, and you have no idea how beautiful and sunny and great you are. But you are. And I see it."

"You do?" Rebekah says, from behind him.

He turns and there she is, standing in his hall doorway. Her eyes are red and a little puffy and her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. A heavy tote bag is weighing her down on one side. A dark gray splash stains the skirt of her daffodil yellow dress.

"You came back," she says, her voice high and hollow.

Matt doesn't know how much she heard of his apology, but words have never been his strength anyway. So he holds up the plane ticket and rips it in half. Then he takes the space between them in two strides, sliding his hands against her jaw as she raises her face toward his. A question barely begins to form on her lips when he eclipses them with his own.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear patient friends, here is the next chapter. It is not to be read while hungry, trust me. CreepingMuse encouraged me to go in the right direction with an insightful edit and much-needed discussion. Her new fic, _Collision_, is fantastic and required reading for all who might have found the sire bond story a bit wonky or were unsatisfied with how it was addressed._

* * *

There's no bomb this time, no vengeful ghosts or who knows what else lurking around the corner. Matt's fingers slide along Rebekah's jaw and she opens her lips against his. Her fingers find the bottom of his shirt and sneak inside, up the planes of his back, along his spine, over his shoulders. As her hands slide upward, his slide lower, over her waist, her hips. They sway into each other.

Rebekah scratches gentle lines down his sides as she presses her chest against him, then steps even closer. The bag at her feet shifts and something hard falls on the top of Matt's foot.

"Ow," he grunts, stopping to look. "What's in that bag?"

"Break up snacks," she pouts.

He rears back. "Break up snacks?"

Her eyes are brighter now, but her eyelids are still red and puffy. "I mean, I'm glad they're not."

There are layers here Matt shouldn't bring up: how he would have assumed "break up snacks" for a vampire would come at 98.6 degrees; how they didn't break up because they weren't together in the first place; how he hadn't realized how much he meant to her. Instead, he sits on the edge of his bed and takes off his shoe, rubbing the throb out, and asks, "what'd you get?"

She pulls one handle of the tote back to peer inside. "Bordeaux, necessary. A baguette, some brie. The clerk insisted I get this, too." She reaches down into the bag and fishes out a round, plastic container.

"Nutella?"

"She said it was the perfect break up food."

It seems so unlike her to talk about something like this with a stranger.

"I guess she could tell," she explains, producing a small paper crate of luscious, red strawberries. "Got these, too."

"Nice," he hums, reaching out for them. And he has to remember to show his gratitude, so he adds, "thank you."

She pulls them out of arm's reach, scowling. "These are spite berries. I planned to fling them against the wall to see how they splatter. Or squeeze them between pages of your passport. Hadn't quite decided."

Matt tries to swipe them again, but he's too slow. "I'm pretty sure it's a crime to waste French strawberries," he warns her.

Rebekah lifts the crate to her nose, taking a long, indulgent sniff. "Then I'll have to eat them, I suppose."

* * *

Their hotel gets four channels, all of them fuzzy, all of them French, but as luck would have it, _The Shining_ is playing on one of them, grainy and overdubbed. It's both weird and comforting after such an exhausting, emotional day. Matt grabs the brie and leans back against the headboard, patting the space beside him.

"You don't mind if we eat on your bed? What about all the crumbs?" Rebekah asks, already twisting the baguette in half.

"I like to live dangerously," he assures her. The resonance of the ever-present danger of simply being near Rebekah vibrates under his words, but it doesn't worry him right now. He smiles, an invitation.

She slides in beside him with a nod, flipping her sandals off the far edge of the bed.

"We don't have plates," Matt realizes out loud.

"Or cups, or utensils."

He shrugs, unwrapping the triangle of brie and breaking it in two uneven pieces. "I won't tell if you won't," he says, handing her an oozing, mangled chunk.

She stuffs it into her hunk of baguette and takes a large, crumb-shedding bite. "Mmm. I feel better already," she attempts around the mouthful.

* * *

"Do you even know what Nutella is?" Matt asks as Jack Nicholson tries to hack down a door with an axe.

Rebekah picks up the plastic tub. "Looks like… hazelnuts. Have you had it before?"

"Naw, but Caroline swears by it."

Rebekah rolls her eyes. _Terrible_, Matt chastises himself. _Never talk about your ex_ _on a date_. And maybe that's all that bothers her, or maybe it's because Caroline is a particularly sore spot for her. Funny, considering how many ways Rebekah and Caroline are similar – or used to be.

Shaking her head at him, she unscrews the top and then, faced with a gold paper seal over the inside, pokes through it with her fingernail. Right into the brown, gooey stuff inside.

"Shit," she mutters, sticking her finger in her mouth to clean it off. Her eyes close. "Oh my God."

"Is it good?"

She dips her finger into the jar again, pulling out a tablespoon-sized glob. "Open up."

He hesitates, his mouth a thin line.

"Trust me. It's delicious." She holds her finger up in front of his face.

"I'm not really a peanut butter person."

"It's nothing like peanut butter. Honestly, you won't be sorry."

She is unwavering. Her eyes bore into him with such intensity that, despite how weird it is to eat anything this way, he opens his mouth so she can smear this brown glob on his tongue. She tries, but it stays stuck, so he closes his lips around her finger and sucks.

Wow. His eyes sort of roll back and close and he groans a little. It's delicious. But it's also her finger, in his mouth, and both of them in a chocolaty haze. She pulls, easing her finger out so she can paint his lower lip with slick chocolate. And he waits there, inches from her face, until she seizes his lips with hers.

He presses her back against the pillows, sucking at her bottom lip. She is deliciously receptive, wrapping her leg around his thigh when he leans into her. Her urgency – their urgency – has been brewing for days, probably weeks, and her hand at the nape of his neck, pulling him into her kiss, fuels it further. He finds himself moving, thrusting gently against her, and realizes she's moving against him, too.

She tugs his shirt off. Somewhere in his mind there's a red light, a hesitation, but it is faint and she is feverishly warm. Her skin under his fingers pushes him further: he drags the hem of her dress up over her thigh, then her hip. She arches her back as they reach the lace of her bra, pressing her breast against his palm, and then, so quickly he misses it, her dress is on the floor.

When she stretches herself against his chest, his head swims with the feeling of her skin against his. But soon she's working on the fly of his jeans, and it jolts his alarm. "Wait," he says.

She pops the top button and he feels the smile on her lips. "You don't mean that. Not right now."

But he does mean it, through and through. He can't lose control that way, not with her. Not yet anyway. He can't let himself be distracted with her. His reaction is visceral, beyond his conscious choice. He wants her but there's so much more to this. He rolls to her side, taking her hands in his. "I do mean it."

Rebekah pushes herself up, avoiding his eyes. "But I thought… I don't understand. When you kissed me, and we were… what's wrong?"

Can he explain it without hurting her feelings? It's not her fault. She's trying to be a good person, and she's succeeding. But she's new to not killing people and sex is so intimate and exposed and he's afraid of what she's capable of. None of which will make her feel anything but rejected. "We're just not there yet," he says. It's true.

"I am," she says in a small voice. "I thought you were." She still won't look him in the eye, letting her gaze fall instead on his chest. "It's just sex," she carps with a hint of impatience.

"Is it?" he asks, more of an answer than a question.

She traces circles on the pillow case. "If you don't want to," she begins.

He lays his hand over hers, interrupting her. "I do." Has he ever been the eager teenager? He can't remember a time he let himself get carried away. Still, on some level it is hard to refuse her, or even delay her. "Soon, I swear."

Cautiously, she meets his eyes. She's not convinced.

He threads his fingers through her hair, his touch feather-light. "I want to. I want _you_, I just…" He runs out of words that won't hurt her.

"Okay," she says, putting on a fake grin. He's sorry, he is, so he leans nearer, drawing her face toward his, and kisses her for reassurance. She whimpers, opens their kiss, and he lets her. He does want her. He wishes things were simpler. He wishes he could drown in his desire for her, and that wish slowly blots out some of his fear. His hips move rhythmically, unintentionally, into her. He can feel her warmth through her thin panties, through his jeans. She hooks one leg around his thigh and pulls him tighter against her.

His lips move over her chin, into the hollow of her neck. There is a flash of memory, of Elena feeding from him, at this same angle but reversed. He can still feel the painful pleasure of that desperate bite and the sticky, slick rush of his blood as she sucked it down. A wisp of an idea flickers, something about action and being the one in control, being the one who bites.

He slips the strap of Rebekah's bra over her shoulder. Two quick moves and her bra joins his shirt and her dress on the floor. He kisses toward the swell of her breast, then licks circles around one hard nipple, and after the initial shock she lets her hand skate over his back in lazy eights. He returns to her mouth to kiss her once, sucking at her lips like a ripe cherry, before adoring her other breast with the same devotion.

Her sighs grow louder with his ministrations, and her hips press more and more urgently against him. Hovering over her this way, his fear is starting to dissipate. He traces his tongue across her ribs, over the plain of her belly, and she hums her pleasure. A few more inches and... he thinks there might be a way. He tucks a finger inside the leg of her panties.

She hisses in a fast, surprised breath. "I thought you said -"

His eyelids are heavy as he drags her panties down and off.

He slides his hand back up Rebekah's leg, registering how unnervingly bold it feels to kneel between her open thighs, to bend toward her, his hands full of the swell of her hips. To hear her gasp as he opens her with his tongue. He is careful with her, insecure, worried that he'll hurt her or do something she hates. He has attempted this exactly once before, with Elena. Neither of them knew what they were doing. Maybe this isn't such a great idea.

Rebekah holds her breath, still as a taut wire while Matt finds his bearings. He licks along a ridge and waits for a reaction. Nothing. He pushes his tongue just inside her, waits, then winds it in a circle. Nothing.

He looks up at her. "I don't know -"

"Up," she rasps.

_Right_. His tongue explores upward in a long, luxurious line, and then, when she angles her hips, he finds the perfect place to suck and swirl. Soon there is a murmur, now a few more, and her hips curl toward him, encouraging him to deepen his kiss.

He begins for the first time to lose himself in the moment, making love to her with his mouth. He starts to follow her reactions, to discern the differences in sensation he can elicit. She relaxes into him with a purr.

His inflamed mouth, his heady hunger for more of her, the strange and wonderful act of devouring her overtakes him, and a thought invades: perhaps this is what Elena felt when she fed from him. She would wipe her mouth, lids heavy, eyes downcast and dark. Guilty. Was it because her pleasure was somehow also sexual, sucking at skin just like this, the pure need for more of him inside her? He thinks, as Rebekah curls her hips in a gathering rhythm, as he presses and sucks in rhythmic answer, that it must have been like this. That he might understand her more now.

Control is ceded wordlessly and almost fearlessly to Rebekah as her purrs grow deeper and her hips more insistent. His entire self is his mouth, all desire, all response, so that he's pretty sure he can tell when that hoped-for wave begins. She slows, tightens, his hands gripping her hips as he rides over the crest with her, sucking harder until her hips snap against him. Even when she melts back into the mattress with relief, he doesn't want to leave her, but she finds his chin with a trembling hand and leads him up to her face for another kiss.

* * *

Matt's rented bike is ludicrously nice. It weighs about as much as a blade of grass, with a hollow, dolphin-shaped seat and a set of corkscrew handlebars he has yet to fully figure out as they head into their second hour cycling along the Seine. Rebekah glides ahead of him, her hair whipping behind her. She doesn't need the bike to get around quickly, they both know it, but she clearly relishes the feeling of the wind, of earning her speed with exertion, of soaring ahead of Matt with a triumphant giggle. He keeps up, maybe because she's letting him, but she doesn't make it easy and that's the way he likes it.

They are bound for Fontainebleau, Rebekah's suggestion. It's a large chateau, or maybe a palace. It's also a school. And there's a forest. He doesn't care. Today, it's not the destination that matters. Maybe it's never the destination, not on this whole trip. He pedals faster, surging ahead of her.

She was gone this morning when he came back from running. It took longer than it should have to discard the fear that she was on some vengeful rampage, or that he had said or done something to send her away, and to realize instead that she had gone on a blood run. She was being kind by taking care of it when he wouldn't have to know, hiding this part of her that he hasn't quite openly accepted. When he got out of the shower her door was cracked open an inch; he wrapped a towel around his waist and walked right in, kissing her without a word.

More memories surge through him, setting off waves of renewed want. The pressure of her body straining against him last night. Her strength and softness under his mouth. Being drunk on the scent of her skin and the way she tastes, musky and almost sweet – the memory sends a shudder through his core.

They finally reach Fontainebleau, and though he expects Rebekah to drag him to the palace first, she takes his arm and leads him into the forest. They meander silently along a web of walkways, and when her wrist slides along his forearm like she's going to let go of him, he finds her hand and weaves their fingers together.

He hears her exhale quietly as they walk. _Sounds like she's smiling. Good._

* * *

Back in Paris after their round trip, they trade their bikes back in for their passports and turn to walk the three blocks to their hotel. They've managed several comfortable silences today. Knowing the palace was younger than Rebekah isn't so much upsetting as sort of intriguing now. But he'll leave questions about her past for another day. This one has been too good to mess up.

Suddenly Rebekah slumps against him. He whips around as something is pulled over his face. There's a crack and a flash of pain. Then everything goes black.

_(A/N: Apologies in advance for slow updates in the next few weeks. I promise I am not being coy, just travelly.)_


	5. Chapter 5

_Darlings! How I've missed you! You have been stalwart and true and I have been running around, rudely gallivanting while there were words to be written. But now I am back and pleased to offer you another chapter in the adventures of Matt and Rebekah on their strange, exciting summer abroad. Thanks as ever to Creeping Muse, who sets aside her own pressing concerns for a friend in need, delivering support and criticism with equal kindness. I would be such a shitty writer if it weren't for her._

**Chapter 5  
**

"Ah, he wakes." Silvery smooth voice. Low, female. Light flickers beyond Matt's vision. He consults his neck muscles: can he lift his head to look? Nope.

The ache in his neck throbs alongside a strain in his shoulder – both, he realizes. They are forced back tight. His arms are bent and bound at the wrists.

"Show us zose dreamy blues, darling." The woman again, her accent thick, garish.

The memory returns: he was walking with Rebekah. On the street, in Paris, on this ridiculous, wonderful trip. And then surprising, blinding pain in his head. He wills his eyes to stay open; a dark wood table comes into focus. He tries his neck again, grimacing against the insecure wobble of muscles unaccustomed to working properly. How long has he been here?

"You _are_ a pretty boy."

Where is Rebekah? Where is he? What is going on?

It is night; curtains are open wide over screenless windows, so that the large room fills with a calm, warm breeze. The woman faces him, seated at the other end of a long table. In front of her, a glass half full of dark, red wine. Candlesticks in the middle, silver like her voice. She is crisply, edgily beautiful, with deep, almond eyes and a severe beak of a nose. Yes, that's it: she reminds Matt of a large, powerful bird, like a giant condor, or no, a pterodactyl. Not feathers but skin. She drapes in her chair, appraising him, a heavy sheet of dark brown hair falling over one shoulder. "Who are you?" Matt finally asks her.

"Veronique, but zat is ze least interesting sing, n'est-ce pas? Don't be dull, mon petit," she teases, her eyes languidly trained on Matt, her body leaning far to the side. Toward a heap beside her, a tangle of blond hair hiding a face. Rebekah? Jesus.

The woman's name rings a distant bell, but Matt is in no condition to latch on and figure it out. "Anyone ever tell you you're a shitty host?" he gripes at Veronique instead, twisting against his ropes.

Veronique laughs loudly, indulgently. "Nice arms. Excellent definition."

"You're wrong about him," Rebekah sneers from under her veil of hair. She sounds exhausted, her tone tight, no depth. Is that why she's letting this happen? Why she isn't fighting back?

"I am not wrong! Look, he has ze biceps like pomegranates! Un specimen merveilleux." Veronique kisses the air at him, two quick, lippy pecks. It's feels meant to make him angrier and it works like a fucking charm. He clenches his jaw and a new ache blooms at his temple.

He's tied to a chair, he has a good reason to sit idly by, but Rebekah? She could take this Eurotrash bitch in a heartbeat. "What do you want?" he grumbles across the table.

Veronique laughs again, sharp as knives. "Now, zis is a more interesting question. I don't want your girlfriend, if zat is your concern."

"He's not my… he's nothing," Rebekah says, clearer now. Neither of them is making sense. Why isn't Rebekah breaking Veronique's neck? He has to get them both out of here, him and Rebekah. If only he could rip his wrists out of these knots.

Veronique stands, scraping her rust-red lacquered nails along the table until she perches behind Matt's chair. "You have hurt his feelings, cherie," Veronique coos over his head at Rebekah, patronizingly sweet. "Bien sur, look in ze eyes. You fascinate ze boy – ze beauty, so like a young girl, but une femme ancienne also. He sees l'eternité in you – yours, oui, but also his own. You are ze goddess who will make him a god."

He should be coming up with a plan to get out. Loosening the ropes isn't working but he can't think of anything else. And even though nothing Veronique said is even remotely true, rage still flares in his gut, making it hard to think at all. "Shut up," he counters lamely.

"And so intelligent."

"It wasn't my idea to kill Pia," Rebekah announces, awkwardly loud. "It was Klaus's."

Veronique freezes behind Matt, statue still. Even Matt knows that hiding behind Klaus is a weak tactic, although against what, he still has no idea. And who is Pia? Finally, across the breathless abyss, Veronique shifts to stalk toward Rebekah. Slowly, like a predator.

"You killed her," Veronique growls, the sound bubbling up from somewhere much deeper than her throat. "Klaus is shit."

On that last point at least, she and Matt agree.

At the far end of the table, Matt watches Veronique settle into her chair again, abruptly languid, eyes back on Matt. "We know ze trusse. She is a beast, n'est-ce pas? An utter demon. Nossing sacred."

Matt keeps his mouth shut and pulls surreptitiously against the ropes. If he were smart, he'd accept the futility of it. And was the woman in the navy or something? These knots are rock hard. All he's accomplished is a bright ring of stinging skin. But whatever is coming, whatever Veronique is planning, he doesn't want to be here for it. He has to get free, and Rebekah isn't helping - maybe she can't. Nor will anyone else come for them, he's sure. No one knows where they are. It's got to be him who does the saving. So he twists some more, gritting his teeth against the sting of the rope.

"Remember ze meal at ze convent?" Veronique prods Rebekah with a brutal, ugly chortle, then turns back to Matt. "Zose girls, zey were champion beggars. I sink it was all zer practice praying, oui? Zey offered us everyssing. _Everyssing_, if only we would spare zer lives. And Rebekah… well, you know Rebekah. She showed not a droplet of mercy."

Rebekah's head lolls forward. What did Veronique _do_ to her? "No one forced you," Rebekah mutters from inside her blond nest.

In a flash, Veronique is on her feet, erupting in a volcano of molten rage. "But I have a heart! You have nossing but a black pit under your tits!"

Now Rebekah lifts her head, defiant. This seems more like the Rebekah Matt knows. "Don't kid yourself, _cherie_. You're in the big leagues now."

They stare at each other, all chins and squinting, for what seems like an hour. It occurs to him that Rebekah could compel her. Why hasn't she? But then, Veronique must know how to protect herself. She's probably vervained herself six ways from Sunday. And then, out of nowhere, still glaring down at Rebekah, Veronique asks, "did Rebekah reveal to you ze story of our parting?"

It doesn't occur to Matt to respond, as he watches Rebekah double down on her glare. Veronique squares her shoulders like the lead singer taking the stage at a concert. She's got the mic and she knows how to use it.

"Bien sur que non," Veronique purrs, slipping back into her chair, crossing her long, sinewy legs over the arm. She reaches a slim hand toward her glass and sips the thick, viscous wine which Matt realizes is undoubtedly blood. "Rebekah was unlike any ozer vampire here in Rome. She was fearless. Patient. I loved her immédiatement."

Here in Rome? What happened to Paris? Wherever the fuck Matt is, the ropes won't budge. He needs a plan B. He gropes in his mind for an out, anything. Could he grab Rebekah and leap with her from the window? Could he surprise Veronique somehow? Stake her with the leg of his chair? Pull her hair? Every idea is stupid and requires hands.

Rebekah huffs.

"I did, ma chère. I loved you. But zen… Pia intoxicated me. Quelle surprise! She was light, quick, a hummingbird. Vulnerable. And also sensual, like… like a pansser."

Rebekah snorts. "She was a whore."

Veronique explodes with venom. "You are ze whore!"

Rebekah hisses something and Veronique bellows something back, but Matt has stopped listening. Of course! He frantically feels for his get-out-of-death-free ring. For a second he's sure it's gone but then, numb as they are, his fingers find it. Grateful for its weight at the base of his middle finger, right where he needs it to be, he stifles a sigh.

Now, how can he use it to their advantage? How can he use it to score the touchdown they need?

Veronique's shimmering voice cuts through his haze. "I never drank from Pia, mon petit chou. Non, I honored her, even while I pretended to want Rebekah, to protect my beloved. Our stolen moments were all zat we had, but I was prepared to savor zem for her few decades on zis earsse. And zen love her, alone, for all ze countless nights to come. Rebekah stole zis dream from me."

Veronique lifts her glass again, swirling it so that blood coats the glass. A glimmer of an idea sparkles in the corner of Matt's mind.

"One evening, I went to Pia but she was gone. I sought her in every place we had haunted, every room we had rented. I confronted her parents, a terrible risk. After a few days I was mad wiss worry, and zat is when Rebekah came to me."

He's not exactly listening. What if he taunts her? Would she make a mistake? The ring would be the out he needs, the safeguard against actually dying. He could take it so far she loses her shit completely, and neither he nor Rebekah could be killed in the process. If he could get her tilting, maybe he could find an opening to… win. Somehow. The plan needs work but it's a start, and he gets the feeling he doesn't have much time. "Is there an interesting part to this story? Can we fast forward to it?"

Veronique's eyes focus on Matt while the rest of her stays still. It is eerie as hell. "Pardonnez-moi?"

Rebekah stiffens in her seat.

"You heard me." Matt's eye starts to twitch, a flutter on his upper lid, but he doesn't look away.

"How dare you -"

Rebekah takes a quick, loud breath. "I have fortunes you couldn't dream of," she pleads, steely and urgent, "and they're yours if you stop this, Veronique. Just stop."

Veronique's face splits in a wide, hideous grin. "I knew you loved him."

What is Rebekah doing? His plan was going to work, at least the beginning of it. It was already working and she derailed it. "She doesn't," Matt protests on Rebekah's behalf. It's a tactic, at least.

"She is smitten, and so are you. Maintenant, it is all fucking and roses. But Rebekah's love is expensive, and you will pay for it. I know."

Before Rebekah can derail her again, he gathers all of his bravado and takes another stab at Veronique's calm. "_So_ much fucking! No roses, though. Turns out she loves dick. Worships it. Well, worships mine."

Veronique cackles as if he told her a joke. Shit. She drains the last drops of blood from her glass. "I'm parched, Massew. S'il vous plait?" she asks, holding the glass out to him.

"I'm a little tied up -" he quips, but before he knows it she's behind him, his skin torn, her teeth deep in his neck. The blood, his blood, is rushing out of him – his heart pumps it and she sucks it and the sting, the strange sensation of an open wound mingles with memories of Elena at his throat, at his wrist. A few seconds throb like empty hours and then she pulls away, waiting to wipe the blood from her lips until he can see her face.

"Alors, ze interesting part," Veronique snarks, focusing on a distant point out the window. "On ze outskirts of Rome, Rebekah and her brozer had strung my Pia up by her wrists. Ze ropes had rubbed ze skin off. I could see ze tendon, ze white bone. She clung to life in ze middle of ze air like a pig for ze slaughterhouse. Her blood pooled on ze floor."

"Sounds smelly," Matt says, as flip as he can manage. It actually sounds gruesome, horrifying, staggering in its violence. Maybe this is all Veronique wants, to destroy whatever redemption Rebekah may have earned with him. Matt reminds himself that this news is exposing anything he didn't already know about Rebekah. But it's hard, especially with a gaping, throbbing neck wound.

Rebekah grinds her teeth, glaring at the candlestick in front of her. "And then I killed her."

Veronique groans. "You spoil ze story!"

"Of course I killed her," Rebekah says, rolling her eyes. "Which he already knew."

Veronique twists toward the candlelight, her thin lips pursed. Even just thinking, she vibrates with predatory energy. Eventually she waves a long hand at Rebekah dismissively. "Go on, zen. Tell him everyssing. All ze details."

Rebekah's glare darts to Matt for a sliver of a second, just long enough for him to see the fear in her eyes. Doesn't she remember his Gilbert ring? Or does she think it's gone? How can he let her know he's got it so she can fight back? There has to be a way.

"I chained Veronique to a chair," Rebekah says, demonstrating the concept with a shrug against chains he hadn't realized were holding her. Not that they could really keep her there, if she wanted to break out of them. Why doesn't she? "Then I drank from Pia in front of her. Left her to die."

"You ravaged her," Veronique seethes, "like a lioness. Pia had no voice because of zat bite. She could barely breaze. I murmured to her zat I was sorry. And zat I loved her. And zen everyssing stopped, ze beat of her heart and the whistle from her torn breazing, all stopped. Even zen, I could only watch, only keep a vigil over zis body I loved, while I dried into a shell. No, worse zan zat, I craved her blood. Ze aroma, ze perfume of her essence, I yearned for it. Zis is what Rebekah reduced me to."

He doesn't want to hear this or think about it anymore. It's too much, all of it, and anyway the most important thing is to tell Rebekah he's got the ring. "Looks like you _came back from the dead_," he comments artlessly, eyebrows raised like an idiot. Come on, Rebekah.

Veronique chuckles to herself.

Rebekah doesn't appear to get it. Back to plan B: make Veronique mad enough to fuck up somehow.

"So that's it?" Matt prods. "That's the story? Whatever."

Veronique glares at him, indignant. "She was my true love, my destiny, and Rebekah killed her. Brutally."

"And you're, what, going to do the same to me? Make her watch? Super original." Matt's fake bravado gives way to something more authentic. Quarterback confidence, perhaps. He clings to it and braces himself for Veronique's explosion.

"But I don't love him, never have," Rebekah volunteers again, interrupting. "So there's no point. It's not revenge. It's barely entertainment." Her voice is brittle. It doesn't match her words.

Veronique leans forward, as if to confide in him. "Messinks ze lady protests too much, non? Mais non, it is not original, because simple revenge is ze best. Like Pia and me: you die helpless, in agony, and she persists, holding your dess, ze sight of your silent body, inside her until nossing is left in zis world except her and her brozers and ze guilt."

"So do it already. Or do you want to tell me another story first, maybe sing me a song?" He regrets the words as soon as they're out. What is he doing? He wants to anger her, not rush her. Dumbass.

But Veronique doesn't respond. Instead her head turns, as does Rebekah's, toward a door in the corner. They are listening to sounds Matt can't hear.

"Matt -"Rebekah warns, suddenly frantic, but Veronique is already behind him again. Her hands are cool against the pulsing heat of his neck wound. He feels the beginning of a twist, then nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks for your patience, friends. I've split my time lately between writing this an__d getting my other Matt/Rebekah fic,_**_ Gifts, _**_pu__blished through Kindle Worlds. If you haven't read it (or even if you have), please consider a trip to the Kindle Worlds ebook store!_ _Special thanks to Creeping Muse for continued consultation and support, and to Wild Yennifer (Happytwinflames) for mobilizing her vast tumblr connections to answer a pressing question about TVD details._

**Chapter 6  
**

The sun shines full and hot on Matt's face through a window just above him. The smell of garlic wafts in, and murmurs and shouts in a language he doesn't know. Clinking, car horns, and the revving of engines. Before he opens his eyes, his hand flies to his neck. He remembers that someone bit him.

No wound. But the skin on his neck feels new, raw. Even the bones… it was more than a bite. Someone broke his neck. That crazy French woman, Veronique. Where is she? He convulses into a crouch. "Veronique?" he calls into the room.

"She's gone," Rebekah confirms, just a voice from a shadow in the corner.

His shoulders are sore, but the ropes are gone. He's on the floor somewhere in the heat of day, near a window, on a loud, busy street. Over a restaurant?

"Rebekah?" Matt asks, squinting into the dark.

"You're okay," she says.

Memories flash like snapshots out of order. A goblet of blood, a defeated Rebekah chained to a chair. "What happened to you?" Matt asks, still grasping for his bearings.

"Veronique ran, left us there. She's been hiding from someone… guess they found her."

It's rushing back now, that she let it all happen. "No, _you_. Why didn't you fight back?"

"Wasn't it obvious?"

It wasn't. He sits up, rubs his neck, and peers into the corner. As his eyes adjust, he can make out Rebekah's form, knees folded into a hill in front of her, head lolling back against the wall.

She finally takes a slow breath in. "As soon as I saw her face, I knew what was coming. It's amazing she didn't rip that ring off your finger. I would have thought she'd know about something like that, considering…. Anyway. She managed to knock me out with a powerful shot of vervain. Must have been concentrated somehow, I don't know, but she bled me nearly dry while I was out. When I woke up I was too weak to break the chains. At first. And then…" She drifts off, studying her knees.

"And then what?" Matt prompts, trying not to sound as angry as he's beginning to feel.

"I couldn't face it. Her plan may have been to torture you, to mimic what I… what I did to Pia…. But Veronique's real revenge was telling you in the first place, showing you exactly how horrible I am. I lost you the moment she told her story, if I ever had you in the first place. What was the point of fighting if you were going to die hating me?"

"Seriously?" His anger is like a comet, unstoppable, huge and made of ice.

She appears to be shrinking into the corner. Probably just the light.

"You just gave up and let her torture me and possibly kill me because you thought I wouldn't _like _you anymore? You were going to let me die because you were too busy _pouting_? Jesus, Rebekah!"

"No, not…. That's not what happened."

"Sounds like you did the math and wrote me off. I was going to hate you, so screw me."

"No, Matt -"

"That sucks."

Matt glares at her, daring her to look him in the eye. She doesn't.

His anger and her guilt marinate in their shared silence until practicality wins out and he gives standing up a try. "So where are we?" he asks with a slight, lingering edge.

Rebekah mirrors him, standing warily. "Around the corner from Veronique's place. First place I could find."

He leans out the second-floor window to watch the bustling street. The aroma from below – tart and roasty and herby – makes his stomach growl. "What next?" Matt asks.

"You still have your passport. It's been two days since Paris. No doubt Veronique's friends in the area are still watching, just in case, so you shouldn't go back. But I'll arrange for your ticket home."

He turns around and glares impatiently at her. Again?

She sets her jaw for another stand-off. "It would be safer to leave."

"It would be safer to move to Montana and put all vampires firmly in my rearview mirror. But safe isn't exactly my highest priority right now."

"It's not? What is?"

How is it possible that this stunning, ancient creature can be so insecure? So quick to give up? Or is it just that she sucks at trust? She made a mistake, yes – an enormous mistake that would have cost him his life if he didn't have the Magic Ring of Not Dying – but he's not just about to give up on this, on her. He takes the room in a few steps but stops just short of arm's length from Rebekah. "You, you idiot."

She's already shaking her head, preemptively refusing him. "I'm fine. I can take care of myself."

"And what if I want to stay? With you?"

Her gaze darts from his feet to his shoulders. "I really did do those things, Matt. Me. I tortured Pia. I could do it again."

"Do you want to?"

She rolls her eyes. "No."

"Then I think we're okay," he says, leaning back slightly on his heels.

She laughs, a little bitterly.

Matt shrugs. His body feels like it's coming back on line, like the resurrection reboot is pretty much complete. "I've died three times now. I figure every minute I'm alive is gravy. So let's close this chapter and get on with our trip."

"She'll keep coming after us."

He stretches his arms at his sides, flicking his wrists once to get rid of a few last kinks from their ordeal. "Why? She thinks I'm dead. She got her revenge, even if she did blow the dismount."

"She's obsessive, always was. She must have been looking for me for centuries, waiting for the right circumstances. And since her plan didn't go the way she wanted? She won't let it go."

"But now we know that she's running from someone else. She'll be too busy saving her own hide to come looking for you again."

"Maybe, for now…"

"Look, all we can do is enjoy our trip and if she shows up again, fine, we'll manage her then."

A car honks. The bright mid-day sunlight blinks on Rebekah's cheek, and finally she gives him a somber nod. "All right."

* * *

When they get to Roma Termini station Matt votes to head whatever direction is the opposite of Rome: north. A few hours later, they arrive in St. Moritz, just inside Switzerland. While Rebekah makes a phone call, Matt gazes up at the Alps that surround the station. They are mystically, geologically old. He's never seen anything like them in real life.

She hangs up and turns to him, all business. "Veronique is the normal kind of vampire, stuck inside during the day. If she's slipped her pursuer, she could come after us tonight."

"Relax. She's too busy running from past crimes to commit any news ones."

Matt waves for a cab and wills her pessimism to drift away on the late afternoon breeze. A compact little taxi swerves and stops in front of them.

"I hope you're right," Rebekah says, climbing in. "But I'm locking you inside before the sun sets."

* * *

Matt lets the water run over him from a shower head rising on a pole mounted against the middle, not the end, of the white tiled bathtub. Europe is so similar to America in some ways, and then in others, just… weird. But the water is warm and the soap washes away the film of old sweat and death that he carried with him all the way from Italy.

The sky outside is dark when he comes out of the bathroom. He's wrapped in a white fluffy robe, like he's at some sort of spa. They'll have to shop for clothes tomorrow. He vows to himself that as soon as he's got something else to wear, he's burning the shorts and t-shirt he's worn the last few days.

Rebekah unloads the contents of a tote onto the kitchen counter: three bottles of wine, a paper bag full of apple-sized lumps, a baguette, some cheese.

"Find a grocery store nearby?" he asks, leaning against the back of a soft brown leather sofa.

She laughs. "Delivery. I couldn't leave you alone here, not with Veronique after us."

"After you, and last I checked she still needs an invitation to come in," Matt counters, a little smug.

"Nope, not for rented rooms, not to mention that I'm the one who rented them, so…."

Crazy magic loopholes. Doesn't matter: Veronique is too busy fleeing from someone else who hates her to bother with them. He takes a deep breath, then another. It feels good, like he's been thirsty for air without even realizing it. One more deep breath.

"You seem tired," Rebekah says.

He rubs his forehead. It's been days since he's slept in a bed. But he's more hungry than tired, so food first. He smears soft cheese on a hunk of baguette while Rebekah pours two glasses of wine. "Want some food? I can make you one of these," he offers, stuffing the end of his makeshift sandwich into his mouth.

"I'm fine," she assures him, settling into an armchair, swiveling it so it faces out the huge wall-to-ceiling window.

He takes a sip of wine. It's good, for wine – he'd prefer a beer, but this will do. They drink in silence for a few minutes, and before he knows it he's scarfed down his food. As he heads back for seconds, it occurs to him that Rebekah hasn't had blood since Paris.

He doesn't know how to ask this. "Are you… hungry?"

"No, really, nothing for me," she insists, watching the night.

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh." She doesn't turn to look at him, but he swears her ears are flushing red. "I'm fine."

"It's been a long time since you had… any."

"I'll survive."

"But honestly -"

"Matt, stop," she says, swiveling around to face him. "You can't even bring yourself to say the word 'blood.' But rest assured, it's none of your concern." She swivels back toward the window. "I am fine."

He shakes his head, for no one's benefit. He can say it. He's been through too much to be squeamish about this. It's not like it even bothers him, exactly. He knows, rationally, that it's just something she needs, like food, like medicine. He knows and is fine with it. How could he not be? Of course, it feels weird, feels wrong if he really admits it to himself, but his instincts in this area aren't fantastic. He's way past this.

"Blood," he mutters. "There, I said it."

She toasts his reflection in the glass and drains her drink.

* * *

Rebekah has a capacity for stillness that Matt has only ever seen in inanimate objects. She stares into the night, keeping watch for Veronique despite Matt's assurances. "She's probably already dead by now," Matt tells her. "She's shivering in a cave in Siberia as we speak," and later, "vampire snorkeling, five miles off the coast and two miles straight down." Nothing makes a dent.

Under other circumstances – if, for instance, they were still happily frolicking around Paris – he might try to touch her, kiss the curve of her neck. Get her mind off of this, and his. But right now, there's no way. Her vigilance is like invisible armor.

"So this is it?" he asks, setting down the last of the English-language magazines on the low coffee table in front of the sofa.

"You wanted to get on with our trip and we have."

"Every night then, you're going to stay awake and watch for her."

"If she sees you, she'll know you've got some magic on your side. She'll come after us twice as hard, and I could take it, but you… it's just a ring."

"So, hiding."

"You could go home."

He folds his arms behind his head. He really is exhausted. "Hide or give up. Seems like a shitty choice."

"You're distracting me from saving your life. Could you please shut up?"

"Okay, I get that you are sorry you almost let Veronique kill me."

She huffs at his reflection in the window. "I did let her kill you."

"Yes, true."

"But that was the last time."

Maybe it's that he's recently recovered from being deceased, or that he needs about twelve hours of solid sleep, or maybe it's elevation sickness, but he is running out of patience. He stands up, tightening the tie on his robe. "Yeah, it was. Because we are going after her."

"So she can twist your arm off and _then_ kill you for good? No."

"Look, even if we remain perfectly hidden while we're here, we can't stay in Europe forever. She can always hop a red-eye and come looking for you in Mystic Falls, or Hawaii, or wherever you decide to go next. Hiding sucks and leaving isn't a solution. We have to find her and straighten this out."

He sees her roll her eyes in the window's reflection. "Exactly how?" she asks.

"Talk to her. Explain."

A bright laugh tears through Rebekah's calm exterior. "That's insane."

"Says the woman who plans to stay up all night, forever."

She holds her now empty glass up to him for a refill. "You can't talk a person like her out of something like this."

He pours purple-dark wine into her glass, then tops off his own. "Here's the thing: she is driven by love. Means there's hope. Her love for Pia, betrayed love for you -"

"She's driven by hate."

He hands her her drink. "I don't think so. That's too simple."

"Fine, maybe at one time it was love. But now it's something different."

"But you're different too. You're not that person anymore, the torturing, jilted girlfriend she really wants revenge on. That's the Rebekah she wants to hurt, but that Rebekah is gone. I know she's gone," he tells her, his voice softening.

She sips her wine slowly, never taking her eyes off of Matt. "You're going to tell her that I've changed and so… what? Now there's no point to her plans?"

"Pretty much."

"Like I said, insane."

"Why? She's not stupid. She has to see that her revenge won't be able to change you, because you've already changed."

"That's not really what revenge is about, Matt. Trust me. I'm an expert."

He sets his wine on the counter and folds his arms across his chest. "I think it's worth a try," he insists.

Her lips twist into a sideways smile, as if she's trying to hold it back. "All right, but what if she rejects your argument and attempts to give the whole torture and killing thing another go?"

It's a good question. "We would have to prevent that."

"How?" Rebekah prods.

Matt searches the window's reflection for an answer. "Hand her over to the person who's tracking her down?"

"And who is that? How do you propose finding that out?"

There's got to be a way, but he's too tired to do any coherent planning. "I don't know. Maybe we don't. Maybe we just kill her."

Silence gapes between them. "Matt."

"Look, I'm sure we won't have to kill her. People change. Vampires know that better than anyone, right? She'll listen to reason."

"But if she won't?"

"I've killed a vampire before." As soon as the words are out, the truth of it hits him like an avalanche. He stops breathing as the memory spools out in his mind: lurching up the steps in the alley behind the Grill, Elena by his side. Sage's cry. Flames engulfing the body. Somehow, the actual _who_ hadn't mattered before, but it does now. Rebekah's brother. Does she know it was him that did it?

He has to tell her. She has to hear it, from him. Now.

"Rebekah."

"Yes, haven't we all, but that's not—"

"I have to tell you something." He wishes he was wearing anything but this ridiculous robe. At least a pair of jeans. He wishes they were somewhere familiar, surrounded by friends. He wishes Elena were here; it feels like that would help. He wishes there were a way to make what he is about to say just not true. But it is. "I killed Finn."

Rebekah doesn't turn toward him. She just leans back into her chair, almost slumping. It's as human as he's seen her since everything happened with Veronique. She looks deeply, heavily weary, even as she continues to stare out the window. "Finn was a sanctimonious pinhead, but he was a good guy," she muses, her voice suddenly quiet. "He would have been on your side if you'd given him half a chance. The one you should have killed was Kol."

Matt opens his mouth but has nothing to say to that. It closes. He swallows.

"The way I heard it, you all worked as a team. But it was you?"

He nods gravely. "I grabbed the stake where it fell and I…"

He doesn't say the next words but they both hear them. "Yeah," Rebekah finally says.

"I'm sorry, Rebekah. I am."

She forces a smile that is ninety-eight percent grimace. "People change. We're different than we were when all that happened, right?"

Her reaction is not what he expected. He doesn't know what he expected. Rage. Tears. Not this.

"Right. And for the record, I hate your plan," Rebekah tells his reflection, standing up. "But I know where to start looking for Veronique."

"You do?"

"Vienna."


	7. Chapter 7

_To all my dear, patient readers, here is a little late summer gift. All (hopefully) good things come to those who wait. And to CreepingMuse, who continues to teach me: bon voyage!_

**Chapter 7  
**

Matt wakes up on the couch, his legs draped over Rebekah's lap, her sleeping torso slumped over his hip. The sun is bright; it fills the window-lined living room with clear, white morning light. He lies still for a moment, letting the strange, stunning surroundings remind him where he is: imposing mountains on all sides, sparse green grass and low, hearty shrubs dotting the landscape. Rebekah's blond hair splayed out behind her and over her face. Soft lips pouting even while she sleeps.

There's a strain in his neck from sleeping at an odd angle. He squirms against the rigid armrest and his robe falls open. Underneath he is still wearing nothing, and of course that's the moment she opens her eyes, the full display inches from her face.

He scrambles to cover himself up, a little more roughly than he means to.

"Some alarm you've got there," she murmurs playfully, pushing herself up to sitting.

His nerves quake with embarrassment aftershocks.

"What time is it?" she asks, rubbing her face like a child.

He sits up too, peering around the room for a clock. "No idea," he says, crossing his legs, carefully doubling his robe over his lap.

Rebekah chuckles, leaning toward him. He watches her until her lips meet his. They are soft and reassuring. After everything, and as wrung out as he is, they feel like the promise of good things to come. "We've got to get some clothes before we leave," she says with a grin.

"Yes, please," he agrees against her lips.

* * *

He retrieves his new suitcase full of clothes made by companies he's never heard of – and Rebekah's two suitcases – from the overhead rack on the train and drags them down the steps onto the platform of Vienna's Hauptbahnhof. The city is gargantuan. It took half an hour just to get through the outskirts, past houses that looked like they were either made by Ikea or built entirely of gingerbread. And then came the city's central buildings, broad, block-long buildings with ornate, decorated edges.

"So Veronique's here, you think?" Matt asks as they emerge onto a busy street.

Rebekah hails a cab. "Oh, no."

"What? Why…?" He trails off. He's too exhausted to be articulate.

She winks at him as a cab pulls up in front of them. Rebekah gives him directions. It will be nice to check into a hotel, close his eyes for a few more minutes – the train was too loud for sleep. And he could really use a beer, he muses, as they pass an ad with an enormous amber glass of something called Stiegl.

They drive through downtown, past hulking, official-looking buildings with statues of men on horseback out in front of them. They pass parks and cafes and soon everything starts to look more ordinary, more like the outer parts of Paris and Rome. Just sprawling, anonymous city.

They pull up in front of a heavily graffitied, forgotten old building in what looks like the kind of neighborhood Matt could easily afford a place. Rebekah presses money into the cab driver's hand and says something, then climbs out. "Come on," she prods him. "He'll wait."

Matt follows. This was his idea, after all, although there doesn't seem to have been a single detail that originated with him. Just the gist: not hiding. The rest is pure Rebekah, entirely out of his hands.

The high windows are covered with black paint from the inside. Rebekah rattles the handle of the locked front door, twice, then a little harder and something metal pops inside. As she pushes open the heavy door, she holds a hand out behind her and he takes it. What is this place?

On the far wall, there is a stage dotted with microphones on stands and a drum set in the corner. The dark, smoky room is empty of people but filled with chairs and small tables. There is a bar along one side and – oh. The room is not empty.

"Rifka, mein Schatz," comes a low, smooth voice from behind the bar.

Rebekah drops Matt's hand. "Schmuel, what a surprise! Of all Max's boys, I would have expected you to be on to better things decades ago."

Schmuel is slim and very tall, so tall that his shoulders curve almost into a hump. His hair is curly and unfashionably long, and his eyes are deep brown, essentially black, under long, feminine eyelashes. "I am. Owner and impresario." He wipes out a highball glass and fills it with thick, dark blood from a glass decanter. "To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?" he asks, offering her the glass.

Matt knows how much she needs that drink, but she swirls it in the glass absently. She doesn't even glance at it, keeping her eyes on Schmuel. "I need to talk to Max." She takes a small, polite sip.

Schmuel spreads his arms out over the bar. "Maybe I can be of service instead? You have come to _my_ Kabarett, after all."

"This is a connection that predates even you, mein Liebchen."

Schmuel studies her while Rebekah sips her drink. "Leider, Max is not here," he finally says.

"And where has our dear friend gone?" Rebekah asks, finishing her drink without the slightest indication of the relief Matt knows she must feel to finally have some blood in her system.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

With an inscrutable grin, Schmuel takes Rebekah's empty glass, rinsing it out under the counter. "What about your… friend? Would he like a drink?" There's a new, menacing undertone in Schmuel's voice. He lifts his eyes to Matt's without moving an inch.

"No, thanks," Matt says evenly.

"Rifka, you know it's not nice to bring snacks unless you intend to share with everyone." In a flash, Schmuel is standing toe to toe with Matt, towering over him. The vampire takes a deep breath through his nose, inhaling Matt's scent like a restaurant critic at a table for one. "Yum," he hums, low and sexual.

Matt freezes.

"Don't be stupid," Rebekah says.

Schmuel sighs, his frame wilting measurably. "Now I remember why I don't like you."

Matt is suddenly skidding across the floor; Rebekah stands in his place. One hand flexes around Schmuel's neck while the other makes a tangled fist at the base of his long curls. "Tell me where Max is. Now."

"Or you'll rip my head off? Such a brute."

Her tone is breezy, even as tension crackles around her. "Well, I prefer civilized conversation, but if you require a brute, what can I do?"

Schmuel's gaze finds Matt, still stunned and sprawled on the floor, now watching the exchange from the far side of the room. Schmuel glares at him like a predator. Rebekah twists his head harder.

"No, you don't even get to _look_ at him. Where. Is. Max?"

Schmuel's eyes flutter closed. At first, Matt thinks the man is going to pass out from lack of air, but of course that's impossible. He realizes as a faint grin parts the vampire's lips that he's savoring the deliciousness of the reveal. Finally, he opens his eyes. "He's a gondolier. In Venice."

Rebekah is silent.

"Venice, _Italy_?" Matt exclaims before he can stop himself. "We just fucking left!"

Schmuel ignores Matt's outburst, slipping out of Rebekah's grasp, with her silent assent if not permission. "Max's baritone? Well, you can imagine, all that singing suits him perfectly." Schmuel blurs behind the bar, settling in behind the flimsy barrier. "And he cuts quite a figure in that little outfit. Corners the overnight market. I visited just last month. I think I gained ten pounds on his fares alone."

* * *

Back in the cab, Matt struggles to calm his fluttering heart. "Who the hell was that?" he finally asks.

Rebekah grins. "Schmuel is one of Max's boys."

"Max. The guy in Italy."

Rebekah leans against the window. "Max is one of those people who knows absolutely everyone. It's astounding, really. If anyone will know where to find Veronique, it's him."

Reminds him of Caroline. She knows everyone, always has. A pang of homesickness rings through him. He clears his throat and changes the subject. "And Max has boys? Like Klaus's hybrids? Like an army?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. More like a school. Or a harem, really. For a while when I first met him, he had thirty or so young Jewish vampires, with Max as their leader. And teacher. And sugar daddy."

"Gay Jewish vampires? Really?"

She smiles, all delighted mischief. "Called the lot the Midnight Yeshiva. Bet they killed their fair share of Nazis. You must remind me to ask Max about that…"

Matt stares silently ahead, pretty sure nothing he says out loud will be right. They race through the streets in the late afternoon light. Finally, he changes the subject. "So now we're headed off to search for Max?"

"In Venice, yes."

Matt crushes his hands to his eyes.

"Tomorrow," she adds. "It's too late to go today. Almost sunset."

He shakes his head. Another night staring out windows. He makes a mental note to scrounge up a two-by-four on his way in and whittle himself a real stake. Shouldn't take too long, right?

What a fucking life.

* * *

They pull up in front of a faded awning. A uniformed doorman opens the cab for them, rapping on the trunk so he can remove their bags. The place is way too nice to have random chunks of wood hanging around the entrance. Maybe there will be something in their room he can use. There has to be.

Rebekah speaks with the front desk clerk for a moment, then rests her hand on Matt's shoulder.

"Ah, Herr Donovan," the clerk says, offering him a set of keys.

"Huh?"

Rebekah turns a level gaze on him. "The apartment is in your name."

They take the elevator to the third floor. "Apartment? Are we staying long?" Matt asks.

"Just the night. No, it's just that vampires can usually get into hotel rooms, but not rented apartments."

"Oh. Wow," Matt says, amazed at the possibility.

She shrugs, watching the numbers light up. "It's a long shot. Don't get your hopes up or anything."

They walk slowly down the hall to their apartment. Matt turns the key and brings the suitcases inside, then turns his expressionless face to Rebekah. No big deal, right? It wouldn't be the end of the world if she (and by extension anyone else with fangs and a taste for blood) could waltz right in. More of the same. But what a relief it would be for both of them if the vampire lockout system worked and they could have a night of safety. And he wants that relief so badly, needs it in a deep place in his heart, in his body.

Rebekah hesitates at first. She squares her jaw, then rears backward into the hallway. One step forward, then another, and she stops at the threshold.

"Can you…? Are you stuck?"

She leans forward, straining against nothing. "I am."

He exhales heavily, a wide smile blooming on his lips. "Rebekah Mikaelson, would you please come in?"

Her face is simply radiant. She takes a careful step inside, as if on an invisible balance beam. "Thank you."

Matt reaches behind her to shut the door. "No, thank _you_. This was brilliant."

Rebekah steps toward him, sliding her hands up his chest. Her lips part slightly, and it hits him that they are alone, finally, and they are unreachable. His hands slide down over her hips while hers reach up along his neck, up to his hair, to the nape of his neck where she held Schmuel's head to defend Matt, to keep him safe. He wants to bury himself in her, dive in, wrap himself in her arms and her kisses and maybe never come up for air.

He crushes her lips with his, pushing her against the wall, pinning her there with his hips. She gasps with surprise and he can feel a fleeting smile on her lips but he laps it up eagerly. A torrent has been unleashed in him – by safety, momentary triumph, who knows what – and he's going to let it drown them both.

Rebekah's nails rake his scalp as she grasps his hair. His breath rasps in his chest as she sucks at his bottom lip. Her skin is hot under the light fabric of her dress, and her fingers leave a trail of fire in their wake as they press along his neck, down his spine, under the waistband of his jeans. He kisses hungrily down to her chin, the crisp angle of her jaw, the hollow of her neck. She squeezes him closer.

His hand skims over her hip, around the curve of her thigh, and then he lifts it against his, wrapping her leg around him. He presses into her, to where she's even warmer, where he can't help but thrust. She presses back, straining against the wall.

Impatiently, Matt feels around for a doorknob and finds one, grabs and twists, sliding Rebekah along the wall so that he can bring her inside the room. Bright light flickers on: a modern, white tile bathroom. "Dammit," he grunts.

Rebekah's eyes burn under heavy lids. "Come on," she says, taking his hand. She leads him down the hall fast, almost faster than he can move, to another door. "Closet or bedroom?" she asks him with a raised eyebrow.

He shrugs, his mouth gaping open, his lips swollen and wanting more. She swings the door open wide, flicking on the light switch on the wall. A large bed occupies most of the room. "Oh thank God," he sighs as she tugs him onto the bed with a kiss.

He pulls his shirt over his head before they reach the pillows, desperate for skin on skin. There may be something to worry about, but not right now. Right now she is wearing one hundred percent too much clothing and so is he. Even before he has his shirt all the way off she is pressing her lips into the hollow of his sternum, holding his hips against her. He throws his shirt off the bed and starts on her dress, unzipping the back, peeling the straps over her shoulders, tasting the skin where they had been.

She slips out of it as she scoots back into the pillows, and now she is in nothing but the sweetest blue panties he has ever seen, lace and cotton with little straps at her hips that he tugs all the way down her legs. She kicks them off her ankles and his gaze returns to her, gloriously bare.

"No fair," she says, reaching to grab his belt. She's trying to tease, trying to be playful, but inside her voice there is a hungry tremble.

His eyelids almost close with a heavy exhalation; he is overwhelmed by want. He lets her unbuckle his belt, unbutton his jeans even as he strains against them. She doesn't lift her eyes from their task, which is just as well because from here he can watch her, memorize the swell and pout of her lips, how her eyelashes curl out over her cheek like a veil over her eyes, the way the soft curves of her breasts resemble perfectly ripe fruit.

By the time she pushes all unwanted clothing down over his thighs, his desire pounds in his ears like a heartbeat. He takes her face in his hands and opens her lips wider with his own, twisting so he can push his jeans and boxers all the way off. She bends her knee, slides her leg along his, guiding him over her. He could sink into her, wants to desperately, almost beyond choice. But no, not quite yet. This moment, poised on the precipice of release, is too delicious to rush. Instead, he braces himself on his elbows, kissing along her collarbone, savoring her.

Rebekah is less patient. In a flash, he is lying on his back against the pillows, the wind knocked out him as she straddles his hips. His eyes roll back and he wheezes for breath.

She ghosts her hands over his chest. "Oh no, I'm sorry, are you okay?"

He nods, grinning in spite of painful sensation of breath trying to tear itself through his lungs.

"No, this was a mistake," she mutters, more to herself than to him. She shifts to climb off of him. "You're too fragile, I'm going to -"

"It's not a mistake," he wheezes, holding her in place by her forearms. "I'm okay."

"I could kill you."

"Do you want to?"

It's an echo of a previous conversation, an argument he has made before. "No," she protests again, "but I could, by accident."

He slides a hand up her arm toward her neck, and she sort of yields, but not without a flicker of resistance. She leans forward so he can reach, so he can wrap his fingers around the nape of her neck and draw her closer. "Human pace, that's all." He kisses her lightly.

"I'll try," she says, and yielding enough that he can pull her down onto him. But then she leans to the side again. He presses her hip, keeping her in place. _Stay_, it says, and she does.

She circles her hips against him. She is slick and inviting, sitting back up, straddling him, watching him with heavy lids. He rests his hands on her hips, hoping to encourage her. She licks her lips as she grasps him at the base and guides him inside. The wave of sensation is so overwhelming, so powerful that a moan escapes his chest.

She moves slowly, swallowing him to the hilt, releasing and coming back. His body curls into her, muscles purely responsive. His head rolls back and he doesn't care how exposed his neck is, what kind of invitation it must look like. She won't bite him, although she could if she wanted to. He trusts her.

He feels her tongue press against the hollow at his collarbone. Their angle changes, intensifies, as she kisses and sucks along the length of his neck. No teeth at all, of course not. She thrusts a little faster, her breasts pressed against his chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist now with another moan. She is unbreakable, and in the face of that miracle he lets himself go, probably couldn't get himself back if he wanted to. He thrusts into her and she matches him, rocking into him, bracing against him, and he knows she's as close as he is.

He finds her lips with his, sucking at the tip of her tongue, and her low, answering moan sends him almost over the edge. His hands find her hips again, his favorite place maybe in the entire world, and the swirling circle of tongue and cock, of thrusting and sucking, swells until they both overflow.

* * *

They lie amid the tangle of sheets as he winds his fingers absent-mindedly in her hair. He wants to say something, and maybe he's being impulsive, but he doesn't think so. "What I said back home about what happens on the road stays on the road?"

Rebekah tightens, withdraws a little. "You meant things like this."

"No, it's…." Matt twists, propping himself up on one elbow so he can face her. "I should never have said that. It was stupid. I was wrong and I'm sorry."

Her eyes glitter with reflected lamplight. And hope. "It's okay."

"No, I didn't realize," he continues. He wants her to understand something about the seriousness of his feelings, about the significance to him of their whatever-this-is. But words have never been his friend. "This, us? Is important to me. _You_ are important to me."

She stifles a grin, poorly. He returns it, then pulls her closer again, tucking her head under his chin, cradling her against him.


	8. Chapter 8

_Gentle readers, I appreciate your patience more than I can say. If only we all had the time we wished for, to devote equally to our responsibilities and passions. I am grateful to you as well for your indulgence as I have taunted you with cliffhangers and introduced you to entirely unasked-for, non-canon characters. You thought this would be fluff when you began. Believe, me, so did I! Only one more chapter, which I promise to post this afternoon, and then adieu._

**Chapter 8**

Venice has a very specific smell, a funk, as if the air itself needs to be cleaned. It's the smell of old water permeating every surface, the smell of lagoons and waterways that hide centuries of rot under a green, opaque shimmer. Not the fresh tang of the ocean at the beach. Less salt, more cheese.

But the way the buildings seem to grow straight up out of the water redeems it a little, Matt thinks, as he sits across from Rebekah at a café on a small terrace alongside the canal. In the twilight, the sky blooms a vibrant, fiery orange behind the ancient houses.

Rebekah sips an espresso, her movements efficient, precise. Under her composure, Matt can feel her anxiety crackling around her like static electricity. Her concern is not for herself – she is tanked up with blood and sleep and is, after all, immortal – but for him, for his fragility at this perilous twilight hour. And it's driving him crazy.

"I'm fine," he says through his teeth.

"I know," she says in exactly the same tone.

* * *

Rebekah climbs into the ornate gondola when it glides up next to the platform, catching the slim gondolier's attention. "Bellissima – oy, Rifka!"

Max teeters on his perch at the far end of his gondola, righting the small craft with a surprised chuckle. Rebekah beams with the surprise, seating herself between Max and Matt.

Matt settles into the seat at the opposite end of the boat, as far from Max as he can manage. Max is all sinew and bone, like a dancer. Brown curls peek out from under his straw hat. His pale skin glows nearly blue in the moonlight. He banks his oar against the pier and pushes them out into the canal, his eyes sparkling with delight.

"How is my princess?" he asks, his deep voice heavy with an old world accent.

"Princess?" Matt mutters.

"Just a… not really," Rebekah assures him, over her shoulder. Then she continues, all business. "I need your help, Max."

"So this isn't a social call? I still owe you for that dinner in Prague -"

"Don't mention it," she interrupts hastily.

Max's deep-set eyes sizzle with mischief. "Tell me about your friend here." He cranes his neck to look at Matt, who darts his gaze away to the nearest eye-catching anything.

"We don't have a lot of time, Max. We're looking for Veronique."

"Yes, yes, and?" he asks, as if Rebekah has just repeated herself. As if it's common knowledge.

"You know?"

Max cants his head, peering at Rebekah for a moment, puzzling. "All right. Tell me more."

"She attacked us… but she fled before she could finish. Someone is after her."

"Someone _else_," Matt clarifies. Max glances at him with a look that is, unnervingly, both hungry and cordial.

"And you don't know who," Max says, marveling.

Rebekah crosses her arms in front of her petulantly. "Should we?"

Max smiles in thought. "I guess not." He sweeps the oar through the water, humming indistinctly. "But why not just let this someone do your work for you? If you're patient, I'm sure she'll wind up dead soon enough."

"We don't want to kill her," Matt volunteers.

Max leans to meet Matt's eyes. "He is adorable," Max says as if Matt can't hear him. As if he isn't sitting right in front of him.

Matt persists, his voice gaining strength. "Look, Veronique doesn't know the whole story. Rebekah's changed, she's not -"

"A vampire?" Max offers ironically.

Matt wilts in his seat. "No. She's good now. She isn't the person she used to be."

Max smirks. "And you know this because you've been alive for _ten minutes_ and therefore, what, command the vast knowledge of the universe? Or you are a witch of some sort, you see the future?"

"Max, please," Rebekah asks.

"I see the present," Matt continues, determined. "People change."

Max licks his lips, turning his attention to Rebekah. "No, absolutely not. I'm not sending your little puppy to his death. Not unless you have a better plan."

"But you know where she is?" she presses.

"I have an inkling." Max's oar cuts soundlessly through the water. "But this? Him? Is not going to work."

Matt leans forward in the wobbly boat, wishing he could stand. "What do you want me to say? That I want to rip her head off? That I'm looking for revenge too? That I'm just as bad as she is?"

Max shakes his head, the gesture of a much older-looking man. "I want to know you're prepared to defend yourself. That you're not some dewey-eyed, hippie pacifist. Not if you're going after a maniac like Veronique. Not if Rifka cares enough about you to keep you alive."

Matt glares at Max. "I've killed a vampire before. I would do it again."

Max lifts an eyebrow at Rebekah.

"Where is she, Max?" Rebekah pleads, quietly.

Max pushes backwards against the water with his oar, slowing the boat as they approach a pier. He sighs. "France. Outside of Vichy, a town called Nizerolles."

The boat bumps gently against the pier. Matt rushes to climb out, then offers Rebekah a hand. Not that she needs it. But she takes it with a knowing grin. Then she turns to Max, still holding Matt's hand. "Thank you, my friend."

He shrugs. "She may not be there. But if she's anywhere you can find her, she's there." He pushes off gently back into the canal without picking up another fare. The boat teeters but he balances effortlessly. "And give my regards to your delicious brother," he calls from the middle of the canal.

"I'm not with Klaus anymore," Rebekah replies.

Max's eyes twinkle under his hat. "No, no. Elijah."

* * *

"I don't care."

_(They didn't even make it into the house. Veronique caught them at dusk, entirely by accident, in the courtyard outside the barn, a squat stone out-building. She wore heavy rubber boots, caked with mud, and was improbably easing leather work gloves off her long, slender hands._

_Veronique froze when she saw them. They all froze._

_"Bien sûr, you would not travel wiss an ordinary, killable human boy," she finally said. "Witch?"_

_"Ring," Rebekah replied._

_Veronique shook her head, as if the whole notion was exhausting._

_"We don't want any trouble," Matt began._

_"Non? Why else would you confront me ziss way?"_

_Matt tried to remain calm and even. He willed his heart to stop trying to beat itself out of his chest. "Veronique, Rebekah is sorry for what she did to you and Pia."_

_Veronique shot Rebekah a skeptical glare._

_"I am, truly," Rebekah replied._

_Matt wasn't done. "She's changed. She's not like she used to be."_

_"Not like... you mean vengeful? Selfish? Monstrous? Mais non, idiot, she is. She always will be zese ssings, and worse."_

_He wouldn't be swayed. "I've witnessed the change. All that, everything she did, it was Klaus's influence, and neglect, and fear. Doesn't matter why; she's past that."_

_"She is? And who has cured her? You?" Veronique's laugh was harsh and loud in the mute, darkening night._

_"This," Matt pressed, "this revenge, it's not necessary. It won't teach Rebekah anything she hasn't already learned. She understands about sacrifice, believe me, and about kindness."_

_"Everyssing you say is meaningless. Rebekah," she pleaded, turning to her, "ze boy cannot honestly be such a moron."_

_Matt didn't pause. "I was, for a long time. I didn't see the good in her. I couldn't look beyond her past. I just… I couldn't forgive her. Because I thought it meant letting her off the hook, you know? I thought it meant telling her it didn't matter that she killed so many people, including my best friend, including, almost, me."_

_"Are you still talking?" Veronique interrupted._

_"Everything horrible she's done_ still matters_. It matters to me, and to you, and to countless, literally uncounted people dead and alive. It all matters and the thing I'm trying to tell you is that_ she knows it_. It matters to her. Which is why she wants to be a good person. It's why she _is_ good, one of the best, most loving people I've known. She will always be on the hook, Veronique, in her heart, where it counts. So I can forgive her."_

_He glanced at Rebekah who gazed wide-eyed back at him, and he held her gaze, his whole face barely holding back a smile. Despite everything.  
_

_"I forgive her. And so should you."_

_Veronique had a vice grip around Matt's neck before he realized she had even moved.)_

"I really don't, Rebekah." With her other hand, Veronique deftly slips the Gilbert ring off of Matt's finger, dropping it in the dirt at their feet. "I don't care if you are ze new Dalai Lama, I will deliver ze same pain I felt back to you. Revenge, stupid boy," she says, tightening her fingers around his windpipe suddenly, "is not for teaching. It is for balance."

Behind Matt's closing eyelids, stars begin to dance.

_("She has to see that if you're good now, there's no point in revenge," Matt argued, for the twentieth time._

_"I'm telling you, it won't matter to her."_

_Holed up in their (his) rented apartment in Thiers, surrounded by stakes in varying degrees of completion, they argued and planned and kissed and fucked, letting the newness of their access to each other overtake them, letting it steer them back and back to the unmade bed._

_"Revenge shows someone who doesn't realize it that they did something terrible. Right? Totally unnecessary in this case."_

_Rebekah took the stake from Matt's hands then, and the knife, climbing into his lap. "I think you're wrong," she said between kisses._

_"I'm right," he muttered, pulling her closer, slipping his fingers around her thigh.)_

"I won't let you kill him," Rebekah insists.

And in this moment, it shines crystal clear to all three of them: Veronique will indeed kill Matt, right now, because she has nothing to lose. Why didn't he see this coming? Veronique faces certain death by Rebekah's hand either way. Rebekah won't be able to get to Matt fast enough to stop her breaking his neck.

"I loved you," Rebekah says, maybe to Veronique, maybe to Matt. "I did. I'm sorry it came to this."

It is an odd moment that hangs between them all, thick and tart, this pause before the end. Veronique glances at the ring in the dirt. "She is a monster, little boy. Nossing can change zat."

Matt wheezes for breath.

"I can," Rebekah protests.

But there is a blur, a curl of wind in the dust, and suddenly Veronique lies in a heap on the ground, already graying. Elijah stands where she had been, Veronique's heart in one hand, the other bracing a stunned, gasping Matt.


	9. Chapter 9

_The summer is over, and so is this story, for now._ _This chapter did not benefit from a beta look (nor did the last, hence errant wonkiness and dull parts), but I would be remiss if I didn't thank_ latbfan _and_ CreepingMuse_ for their continued wisdom and solidarity, long past when any reasonable person would expect it from even such stalwart friends as these._

_And to my readers both silent and review-y, thank you. _

**Chapter 9**

Rebekah's hand flies to her mouth. "You were there. All the time."

"Not _all_ the time," Elijah corrects her with an indulgent grin.

"During those dark years with Klaus? I remember, maybe twice… your face emerging from shadow."

"Only twice?"

"Hey, thanks for saving my life," Matt says, rubbing his neck.

Elijah kneels almost to the ground, gracefully, and retrieves the Gilbert ring. He holds it out to Matt. "You," he says with the hint of a grin, "are welcome."

"I can't believe this," Rebekah says, eyes still wide.

"Veronique was fast and smart," Elijah continues. "I had hoped to prevent an incident like this one. I've been tracking her since… well." They all know now when it started. And why.

"Max knew it was you, didn't he?"

Elijah leans back in playful reminiscence. "How is Max?"

Rebekah stomps, indignant. "Elijah! Honestly, all this time!"

"Honestly, little sister," he confirms, gently serious.

"But why?" Matt asks before he can stop himself. It's not exactly his business, but after everything he's been through, it's not exactly not, either. "I mean, how did you know what Veronique was capable of?"

"I didn't. She wasn't the only one," Elijah tells him, squinting subtly against the coming realization.

Rebekah steps back at the weight of the truth. "You tracked everyone," she gasps.

* * *

Inside Veronique's small kitchen, Matt pounds a few glasses of water while he listens to Elijah and Rebekah talk in the living room.

"He knows your history and he's still with you," Elijah says. "He's a very special man."

"He really is," Rebekah agrees. Matt grins as he drains another glass.

"And he loves you."

Matt grips the edge of the counter beside him, steadying himself. Elijah says it with such conviction. But it's easy to have conviction when it's not your own heart on the line. Or is Matt's hesitation just habit at this point?

Fuck it. Elijah's right.

"You think so?" she asks, the beginning of a smile in her voice.

After a moment, Elijah speaks again. "Your family needs you."

"You don't need anyone," Rebekah answers, breezily at first, "and Klaus… it's best if I'm not around him at all for now."

"He's going to be a father."

Matt loses his grip on the counter – he realizes he's been clutching it hard – and almost falls.

"I assume you're being poetic," Rebekah volleys back.

"There is going to be, in fewer than nine months, the birth of a child fathered by our brother. You are going to be an aunt."

"How? Magic? What did he do?" There is something so bare and hopeful in her stammering, it hurts Matt to hear her.

Elijah takes a sharp breath. "Something to do with being a werewolf, and with another wolf…"

"Ah," she sighs. Then, pertly trying to change the subject, she asks, "who's the unlucky girl?"

"Her name is Hayley."

Matt rubs his temple. Tyler's friend? Things just get weirder and more horrible every second, don't they?

Rebekah begins to laugh, the tone bitter. "Of all the people in the world to be given a miracle. Klaus? Seriously, Klaus gets this?!"

Matt wants to interrupt, talk her down maybe, or just hold her hand. But Elijah is with her. Elijah, probably the closest thing the world has to an actual savior. So Matt stays frozen in the kitchen, braced against Veronique's woodblock counter, freaking out noiselessly, alone.

Not freaking out, exactly. Processing the shitty news.

"You've wanted a child, I know," Elijah intones.

"Don't," Rebekah insists, interrupting. "I just… please don't."

"The child is a gift, Rebekah. For all of us."

Silence.

Elijah continues. "This child presents the possibility of redemption. Klaus wants to protect his burgeoning family. He's with Hayley now, in New Orleans, making arrangements. He wants to make New Orleans our home, like it once was."

Like it once was? Matt has tons of questions, but he dreads the answers. No part of this sounds good.

Rebekah snorts. "He can change diapers without me."

Elijah's voice is soothing and deep. "This is a chance for us to be a family again. We need you."

"We?" she asks, measured.

"I have been in New Orleans. With Klaus." He clicks his tongue, a sure response to some look from Rebekah. "It's complicated there: witches, werewolves… An old protégé of Klaus's, Marcel, is running the city. Into the ground, it seems. I felt a cooler head managing events would be useful."

Rebekah's voice is pleading, and so soft Matt can barely hear it. "I'm just getting the hang of this, and with -"

"Bring him with you," Elijah interjects, just as quiet.

"Into that? It's too much to ask. Of either of us."

"This is going to change Klaus, Rebekah. I can see it already. He's becoming the man we've hoped he could be. The man he was in the beginning."

Rebekah is quiet.

"You can't doubt the possibility. Not after what has happened in your own heart."

Without warning, Elijah is stepping, nearly floating, into the kitchen. "And it's time for you to call home, Matt. A message from your friends in Mystic Falls," he explains in the doorway, then steps out into the night.

* * *

"I have to do this."

Matt lets their rented car wind through pine forest, back to Thiers, back to the world and reality. Jeremy answered when he called, on the first ring like he'd been waiting for him, and told him the principal was frantic, needed a replacement for the coach at the last minute – their new, incompetent but well-meaning coach had moved away out of nowhere, left a note and hit the road. No idea why. The players were clamoring for Matt, begging the principal to hire him. The parents, too.

He could do the job, no question. Coaching was better than bussing tables. Hell, it was better than pretty much anything he could think of as a real, actual job. He hadn't imagined something like this was possible, not right out of high school, but the principal was adamant. He offered Matt a livable salary and promised him a full ride at the community college to get a degree, as long as he only went part time while he was coaching.

It's the opportunity of a lifetime.

Rebekah stares out the window, watching the tall, planted pines fly by in regular lines. "I know you do."

"Mystic Falls," Matt muses. "Home sweet home. Land of the free and the terrifying."

"You're going to be a wonderful coach, Matt," she assures him, squeezing his forearm as he shifts. "You deserve this."

Matt hears the bittersweet undertone in her words and pulls over. He can't give her the reassurance she needs and drive at the same time. He shifts in the seat, turning to her. "They're going to see that you're different, right away, I promise. I'll vouch for you, I'll be right be your side. Seriously, if Damon Salvatore can be forgiven and welcomed into the fold, you're got it covered."

"I'm not going back."

How is it possible that both of these things have to happen at the same damn time?

"Matt, I'm going to New Orleans. I have to, for Elijah."

Matt opens his mouth to protest, but Rebekah stops him with a fervent kiss.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Matt unwraps the red wool scarf from around his neck and drops it on his desk. Jeff Daltry, the new quarterback – a lanky, dark-haired kid Matt played alongside for the last three years, handing the ball over once the job was mostly done – calls after him. "Good game, Coach!"

"Great game, Daltry. Nice work."

It was awkward at first, leading a bunch of guys who had been his teammates only months before. But they wanted him to lead them, and after a few games he had to admit he was doing okay. A few losses but mostly wins, and the team was improving. Now, a few days before Thanksgiving and the season nearly over, he's starting to consider that he might have been born to coach high school football. He feels like he's exactly where he belongs.

Only one thing missing.

The locker room fills with cheers and steam. He swings the door to his office shut.

A plain, white envelope lies on top of his closed laptop, with an M written in the center. He opens it quickly, ripping the flap, and pulls out a plane ticket to Montreal, and a note.

_Christmas in Quebec? Love, R._

* * *

_A/N: Doesn't that sound like a delectable set up for a series of fluffy one-shots? Matt and Rebekah's stolen weekends... Perhaps, if the muses and the TVD/Originals writers are kind, there will be more to come._


End file.
